Well... I have a bit of a defense mechanism when it comes to ridiculously attractive men (lol, I guess the reader in the story does too 😭). Those heterochromatic eyes, that deep voice, and those hands? They would be an absolute disaster for my self-control.
So if I were an unmarried lady in Westeros, I honestly think I'd spend my days alternating between two very different strategies: either casually wandering over to watch Baelor's training purely by coincidence, absolutely not staring at those muscles in motion 🤭, or showing up to the public audiences in the throne room only to quietly hide in the darkest corner, half-hidden behind other lords and ladies, so I could secretly watch him from a safe distance... and then, the moment he so much as looked my way, pretending to be completely indifferent, suddenly finding something very interesting to look at elsewhere, or simply turning around and fleeing before he could catch me looking.
That's exactly why prompts #13 and #5 both spoke to me so much. I genuinely couldn't decide between them, but in the end I chose #5.
𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 | 𝐁𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍.
This will have a second part, and as the reader is unmarried, I know for a fact that though I can write him fucking the reader senseless, I will not deign that low, and thought it best to make a second part for this, as Baelor will marry the reader before he takes her, but I added enough heated moments.
Hope this makes you happy.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: mutual pining, age gap, unmarried reader, dirty talk, fingering, oral (male receiving), sexual content, minors dni.
The throne room of the Red Keep hummed with the low drone of petitioners and courtiers, banners stirring faintly in the drafts that slipped through the high windows. You had chosen your corner well, half-shielded by a cluster of minor lords in their velvet finery, the shadows pooling deep enough to swallow most of your silhouette. From here, you could watch Prince Baelor Targaryen without fear of immediate detection.
He sat at his father’s right hand today, tall and commanding even in repose, the fire of his Targaryen blood gleaming in his dark hair, grey at the edges and the sharp cut of his jaw. Every shift of his broad shoulders beneath the black-and-gold doublet drew your eye like a moth to flame.
You told yourself it was only coincidence that you had slipped in after the morning session had already begun. Just as it was coincidence that you had spent the hour before that “casually” passing the training yard, heart hammering at the sight of him in the lists, sweat-slicked linen clinging to the powerful lines of his chest and arms, muscles flexing as he drove his lance home with effortless brutality. You had not stared. Certainly not.
Yet now his gaze swept the room like a predator’s, and the instant it found you, lingering, knowing, you felt the air leave your lungs. Heat flooded your cheeks. You turned sharply, pretending sudden fascination with the embroidered sleeve of the lady beside you, and took one instinctive step deeper into the shadows, ready to flee before he could—
Too late.
The session ended with the bang of a staff on stone. Voices rose, feet shuffled.
You moved with the crowd, but a firm hand closed around your wrist just as you reached the arched doorway, pulling you aside into a narrow alcove draped with heavy tapestries.
The world narrowed to the scent of him, leather, steel, and something warmer, like sun-warmed cedar and the faint trace of pomade in his hair. Baelor loomed over you, one arm braced against the stone wall beside your head, caging you without quite touching.
His mismatched eyes burned.
“I can smell your desire from across the room,” he murmured, voice low and rough, pitched only for you. The words slid over your skin like a caress. “Why are you pretending you don’t want this?”
Your breath hitched. You tried to summon indifference, to lift your chin and deny it with the practiced poise of a highborn lady, but your pulse betrayed you, racing visibly at the base of your throat. He noticed, of course. Baelor’s free hand rose, the backs of his knuckles brushing feather-light along your jaw before trailing down to rest just above the frantic flutter of your heart.
“You’re shaking,” he continued, a dark, satisfied edge to his tone. The corner of his mouth curved, sharp and hungry. “Is it fear, or are you just that desperate for me to touch you?”
The alcove felt impossibly small. The distant murmur of the court faded to nothing. His body radiated heat, the hard planes of his chest inches from brushing the softness of your breasts with every inhale. You could feel the restrained power in him, the same coiled strength you had watched in the yard, now turned entirely toward you.
“I… I wasn’t—” The protest died as his thumb swept slowly over your lower lip, parting it just enough to tease.
“Little liar,” he breathed, leaning closer until his mouth hovered a breath from yours. “I’ve seen you in the yard. Watched you slip away like a frightened doe the moment I turned my head. And still you come back. Still you hide in my hall and devour me with those eyes.” His hand slid lower, palm flattening possessively over your waist, fingers splaying wide as if he could feel every tremor through the layers of silk. “Tell me to stop, then. Say the words, and I’ll let you flee again.”
But his body pressed forward, thigh nudging between yours, the solid heat of him making your knees threaten to buckle. The air between you crackled, thick with everything unsaid, every stolen glance, every imagined press of his mouth to your throat, every filthy fantasy of those strong hands pinning you down.
He waited, eyes locked on yours, the obsessive intensity of a dragon barely leashed.
The words tumbled from your lips in a breathless stammer, cheeks burning hotter than the braziers lining the hall. “I—I didn’t mean anything by it, Your Grace. Truly. It was only… only coincidence. I was merely passing—”
Baelor’s smile was slow and devastating, a flash of perfect white teeth against the sharp angles of his face. It wasn’t the polite courtier’s smile he wore for the lords and ladies outside this alcove. This one was pure predator, dark, knowing, and laced with wicked amusement. He tilted his head, studying you like a cat with a cornered mouse, the hand at your waist tightening just enough to hold you in place.
“Oh, sweet girl,” he murmured, voice dropping to a velvet rumble that vibrated through your chest. “You stammer so prettily when you lie. Did they teach you that at your father’s knee? How to deny the truth while your body sings it loud enough for the whole Keep to hear?”
He leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear. The heat of his breath made you shiver violently. One of his knees nudged higher between your thighs, pressing the silk of your gown against your core in a way that was both maddening and not nearly enough.
“Tell me, then,” he taunted, the smile still curving his mouth as he pulled back just far enough to lock eyes with you. His free hand slid down your side, possessive and unhurried, tracing the dip of your waist to the flare of your hip. “If I bent you over right here, right now, in this very alcove, would I not find you soaked for me already? Dripping down those pretty thighs like a desperate little wanton who’s been aching for her prince’s cock since she first spied him in the yard?”
The crude words, spoken in that cultured, commanding voice, sent a fresh bolt of heat straight to your center. You felt yourself clench involuntarily, a rush of slick warmth betraying you exactly as he predicted. Baelor’s eyes darkened with satisfaction, he could read every micro-expression on your face.
He chuckled softly, low and filthy. “No answer? How convenient.” His fingers flexed on your hip, bunching the fabric of your gown as if he were a heartbeat away from doing exactly what he threatened, yanking it up and bending you forward over the stone ledge behind you. “I could check, you know. Slide my hand under these skirts and feel for myself how wet that tight little cunt has gotten just from my voice. From the thought of me pinning you down and taking what you’ve been offering with every stolen glance.”
He paused, thumb stroking lazy circles over your hipbone, the pressure firm and teasing. His thigh pressed more deliberately between yours, grinding lightly against the ache building there.
“Or are you going to keep pretending, my shy little watcher?” His smile sharpened, eyes gleaming with that obsessive hunger. “Say it. Tell me I’m wrong… and I’ll stop. But we both know I’m not.”
His body caged you completely now, the hard ridge of his arousal evident against your belly through his breeches, proof that his taunting was affecting him just as fiercely. He waited, patient as a dragon, daring you to lie again while every inch of you trembled with need.
Your heart hammered wildly.
Baelor’s gaze dropped to the furious blush staining your cheeks and the tops of your breasts, visible above the modest neckline of your gown. His smile softened at the edges, just for a heartbeat, something almost tender flickering beneath the hunger.
“Seven hells,” he breathed, the words rough with affection and lust. “Look at you. That pretty blush… it’s fucking endearing. Makes me want to ruin you even more.”
You couldn’t breathe.
The air felt too thick, too hot, every inhale filled with his scent and the overwhelming presence of him. Your lips parted, but no denial came. No stop. Your silence was louder than any confession, and Baelor heard it perfectly.
His eyes darkened with triumph.
“Good girl,” he praised softly, the hand on your hip sliding lower, bunching your skirts inch by inch. The cool air kissed your calves, then your knees, as the silk whispered upward. “Not a single word to make me stop. We both know why.”
His thigh pressed more firmly between yours, holding your legs open just enough for his questing fingers to slip beneath the final layers. When he reached the slick heat of your smallclothes, he let out a low, satisfied groan that vibrated against your throat.
“Gods,” he murmured, voice thick. “You’re drenched. Exactly as I said.” Two fingers stroked along the soaked fabric, pressing it against your swollen folds with deliberate slowness. “Soaking through everything for me. My shy little watcher, pretending she doesn’t want this while her cunt weeps for my touch.”
He circled your clit through the cloth, firm and teasing, watching your face the entire time. Your knees buckled, only his body and the wall kept you upright. The blush deepened until you felt feverish, breath coming in shallow, desperate pants against his collarbone.
Baelor leaned in, lips brushing your temple, then your ear again. “Still not telling me to stop?” he taunted, though the words were gentler now, laced with dark delight. He pushed the fabric aside and dragged two thick fingers through your bare, dripping slit, coating them in your arousal before pressing one slowly inside you.
The stretch was perfect, possessive. “Fuck… so tight. So ready. I could bend you over this instant, lift these skirts, and bury myself in this needy little hole until you’re sobbing my name loud enough for the entire court to hear.”
He curled the finger inside you, stroking that sensitive spot while his thumb found your clit again, rubbing slow, maddening circles. His other arm wrapped around your waist, holding you flush against him so you could feel exactly how hard he was, thick and insistent against your belly.
“Tell me what you want, little lady,” he whispered hotly, adding a second finger and pumping them deeper. “Or keep pretending… and I’ll just keep going until you come all over my hand right here in this alcove.”
Your body trembled violently in his arms, pleasure coiling tighter with every stroke, the risk of discovery only heightening everything. Baelor watched you with that obsessive intensity, drinking in every gasp, every twitch, every helpless roll of your hips against his hand.
He was never going to let you hide again.
Baelor’s fingers worked you with devastating skill, slow, deep strokes that curled perfectly against that sensitive spot inside while his thumb circled your throbbing clit without mercy. The wet, obscene sounds of his hand between your thighs filled the narrow alcove, muffled only slightly by your bunched skirts.
Your head fell back against the stone wall, lips trembling. The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter, unbearable now. Pride finally shattered.
“Please…” The word broke from you in a desperate whisper. “Baelor—please, don’t stop. I—I can’t—please—”
His smile was pure sin. “There she is,” he growled, voice rough with satisfaction. “My honest little wanton. Begging so sweetly for her prince.”
He didn’t stop. If anything, he redoubled his efforts, thrusting two thick fingers faster, harder, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit with every stroke. His mouth found the frantic pulse at your throat, sucking a mark into your skin as if staking his claim.
“Come for me, then,” he commanded against your neck, low and irresistible. “Let me feel this pretty cunt squeeze around my fingers. Give it to me.”
The coil snapped.
You came undone with a choked cry you barely managed to muffle against his shoulder, thighs shaking violently as pleasure crashed through you in heavy, pulsing waves. Your walls clenched greedily around his fingers, slick flooding his hand as you rode out every last tremor, hips jerking helplessly against him.
Baelor held you through it, murmuring soft praises—“Good girl… that’s it… so fucking perfect for me”—until the last aftershocks faded and you sagged bonelessly in his arm.
Only then did he slowly withdraw his fingers, glistening with your release. He kept you pinned with his body for a moment longer, letting you catch your breath, before stepping back just enough to meet your dazed eyes.
“Run along for now, little watcher,” he said, voice still husky but laced with that taunting amusement. His gaze raked over your flushed, disheveled form with open possession. “I have matters of state to attend… though I’d much rather stay here and fuck you properly until you can’t walk.”
He lifted his hand to his mouth, never breaking eye contact as he slowly licked his fingers clean, tasting every drop of you with obvious relish. The sight sent a fresh, weaker pulse of heat through your spent body.
When he finished, he smirked. “Go. Before I change my mind and bend you over after all.” He adjusted your skirts for you with surprisingly gentle hands, though his eyes promised this was only the beginning. “But know this… next time I catch you watching, I won’t be so merciful.”
With one last lingering look that made your knees weak all over again, he stepped back into the hall, the picture of composed royalty once more.
You were left trembling in the alcove, heart racing, thighs slick, and the taste of his promise lingering in the air.
The days that followed blurred into a torturous dance of stolen glances and deliberate avoidance. Baelor was everywhere, training in the yard at the exact hour you “happened” to pass by, presiding over audiences where you tried (and failed) to melt into the crowd, his mismatched eyes always finding you no matter how cleverly you hid. Each time your gazes locked, your cheeks would flood with heat and you’d flee like a startled rabbit, heart pounding with equal parts fear and aching want.
Until the royal library.
The cavernous room was quiet this late in the afternoon, dust motes dancing in the slanted beams of sunlight that pierced the tall windows. You had tucked yourself into a secluded alcove between towering shelves, a heavy tome of old Valyrian poetry open on the table before you. Or at least, it was meant to be. The words swam on the page, your mind kept drifting to strong hands, a wicked smile, and the memory of his fingers buried inside you.
You didn’t hear him approach.
The heavy door clicked shut. Footsteps, confident, unhurried, echoed softly on the stone floor. Then his shadow fell over you.
Before you could even gasp, Baelor’s large hand pressed between your shoulder blades, bending you forward over the sturdy oak table. Your breasts flattened against the cool wood, the book forgotten as your cheek pressed to an open page. He kicked your feet apart with one booted foot, flipping your skirts up over your hips in one smooth motion.
A low, disapproving click of his tongue filled the air.
“I warned you, didn’t I, little watcher?” His voice was dark velvet, laced with dark amusement as he palmed the bare curve of your ass, squeezing possessively. “Every time you blushed and hid… every time you ran. I told you what would happen the next time I caught you.”
He leaned over you, hard body covering yours, the thick ridge of his cock pressing insistently against your ass through his breeches. His breath ghosted hot against your ear.
“And now here you are. Alone. Wet already, I’d wager.” Two fingers dipped between your thighs, stroking along your slick folds with humiliating ease. “Tsk. Just as I thought. Desperate for your prince.”
He straightened, the sound of his breeches unlacing loud in the hushed library. Then his hand was in your hair, gripping firmly but not painfully, guiding you off the table and down.
“On your knees.”
The stone floor was cool beneath you as he pushed you down in front of him. His cock sprang free, thick, long, flushed dark with need, the head already glistening. He towered over you, one hand still tangled in your hair, the other fisting his impressive length with a slow stroke.
“Be a good girl and please your Prince,” he ordered, voice rough with command and barely leashed hunger. He tapped the heavy head of his cock against your flushed cheek, smearing a bead of precum across your skin. “Open that pretty mouth and worship what you’ve been craving. Suck me like the needy little slut you pretend not to be.”
His mismatched eyes burned down at you, obsessive and triumphant, waiting for you to obey.
The library was silent except for the rapid beat of your heart… and the low, expectant rumble in Baelor’s chest.
You obeyed.
Kneeling there on the library floor, skirts pooled around your thighs, you parted your lips and took him into your mouth. Baelor groaned low in his throat, the sound reverberating through his chest as the thick head of his cock slid over your tongue. He was heavy, hot, and tasted faintly of salt and man. You hollowed your cheeks, sucking gently at first, then with growing hunger as his grip in your hair tightened.
“That’s it… fuck, just like that,” he murmured, voice low and tender, almost reverent. His free hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he rocked slowly, tenderly into your mouth. “Such a good girl for me. Look at you—taking your prince so beautifully. So eager… so perfect.”
He didn’t thrust roughly. Instead, he fucked your mouth with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, savoring every swirl of your tongue, every soft moan that vibrated around his length. His praises poured over you like warm honey.
“My sweet little watcher… you have no idea what you do to me. Every stolen glance, every blush, mine. This mouth is mine now.” His breathing grew ragged, but he kept the pace gentle, almost loving, even as his cock thickened further on your tongue. “Gods, the way you suck me… you were made for this. Made for me.”
Your own arousal was dripping down your thighs, the ache between your legs almost painful as you whimpered around him. The sounds you made only seemed to spur him on.
He was close, you could feel it in the way his thighs tensed, the way his grip in your hair trembled. His cock pulsed against your tongue, and just as he reached the edge, he suddenly pulled free with a wet pop.
Before you could protest or catch your breath, Baelor hauled you up to your feet, crushing his mouth to yours in a deep, devouring kiss. He swallowed every needy moan that spilled from you, tongue stroking yours with the same tender hunger he’d shown your mouth moments ago.
One arm banded around your waist, holding your trembling body flush against his while his still-hard cock throbbed hotly against your belly.
When he finally broke the kiss, both of you gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His voice was rough, dark, and utterly possessive as he murmured hotly against your ear.
“You are mine now. Do you understand?” His hand slid down to grip your ass possessively, fingers digging in. “I know you’re unmarried… untouched by any other man. And because of that, I will not take you here. Not like this.” He kissed you again, slower, sweeter, but no less claiming. “I won’t claim this sweet cunt until you beg me for it. Until you come to me openly and say the words: ‘I’m yours, Baelor. Please fuck me.’”
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, that obsessive fire burning brighter than ever.
“Until then…” He reached down, stroking two fingers through your drenched folds one last time, collecting your wetness before bringing them to his lips and sucking them clean with a low, satisfied hum. “I’ll content myself with this. But know this, my lady, you will beg. And when you do, I won’t be gentle.”
He helped steady you on your feet, smoothing your skirts down with surprisingly gentle hands, though his gaze promised endless torment. With one final, searing kiss to your forehead, he tucked himself away and stepped back.
“Until you’re ready to stop hiding… run along again, little one.”
Then he was gone, leaving you flushed, aching, and utterly claimed in the silence of the library.
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summary — Begrudgingly, you agreed to the task of "earning favor" with the dragon house by your father, the lord of ashford. Unknowing of the unexpected flurry of feelings and the life-altering events that would follow in the wake of your first meeting with Prince Baelor.
content tags — mdni!! fluff and angst, forbidden love, love at first sight, legal age gap, no use of Y/N, reader is lord ashford's natural daughter, and bastardphobia comes with it, reader drives Baelor insane (lovingly <33) filthy smut… (p-in-v sex, freak4freak, semi-public sex, brat-taming, hair-pulling, blowjobs, soft aftercare, fingering, overstimulation, scent kink (i wonder if anyone noticed), edging), poorly beta read.
author's note — insanely self-indulgent 50% sweetness, 50% filth. this is based on @vhagars-dementia 's idea, absolute gold pull from my likes.
The rays of the sun bathed the expanse of your home in its golden brilliance, the sight of those innumerable banners saturating the grassy horizon only added to the beauty of the view within the castle walls.
You looked at your little sister then, smile widening at the way she forgot herself, now less of the lady she liked to pretend she was and more of the little girl who was so excited about growing older that she'd press her freckled face close to the window with her hand shielding against the glare of the sun. You threaded your fingers through her thick dark hair as if to tether her back to the earth before she soared up these clouds any higher, and asked the question that did not call for answer.
"Was it everything you hoped for, winnie?"
Gwin turned to you then, grin wider than you've ever seen it, and she was a smiley girl to start. "You're acting as if the celebrations are over already!" She berated with no malice in her voice, then leaned forward all conspiratorially and said: "Did you know that the Targaryens are coming? Father said so, he told me they would be arriving any time now."
Oh you've heard all about that, but it was adorable how she wanted to share this 'secret' piece of information with you, so you pretended to be caught off guard anyway, she was the nameday girl after-all, and a little white lie never hurt anyone, now did it? You did not know if she was to have another nameday as good as this one, considering the amount your father spent to show off, insurmountable amounts of coin that may never find their way back to the coffers.
You could not say you were particularly excited about the arrival of your guests of honor, being what you were. The kind term used for you was "natural daughter", although many preferred the short and sweet title of "bastard" when your back was turned.
And while the reputation of bastards were never truly as flowery as that surname branded upon you the moment you drew breath—it did not help at all that the war waged by one that shared your affliction was still fresh on the minds of all. Sufficed to say you were unsure of the wisdom of your being here—more so on your task of "earning favor" from your honored, royal guests, which was a more dignified way to say you were to doll yourself up to entice them into taking you as paramour—that was the best case scenario.
You doubted anything would come of it. For one, even if it was a trivial thing, you hardly knew a thing of the royal princes for you did not expect to meet them in person, much less see them a single time in your life.
As a result of that realization, you decided to pay a visit to that increasingly packed meadow, confident that you would find what you desired there, because you certainly weren't going to get any from your lord-father.
Naturally, the information was easy to find, and even more so entertaining was the night you spent acquiring it, this was one upside of bastardy, prying eyes were not constant and you were allowed to do as you wished so long as you were not recognized—an easy feat.
Opinions and telltales on the Targaryens were as clashing as night and day, you'd found.
Most were not completely content with them, one man drunkenly regaled you with tales of times he never really witnessed himself, of times before the Conquerors, when the kingdoms were independent and spent ample time affronting the house of dragon with a blistering, audacious loudness — you left him mid-rant, of course.
You doubted that any of the treason he was wasting your time and his breath with was truly any of your business, if it was anything true, and it certainly was not giving you anything of substance for you to use.
The song of the Hammer and Anvil kindly gave you a little perspective on them, not much on their personalities besides them being an excellent, unrivaled pair of soldiers, but you learned about one other thing. If you enjoyed his company enough and were so inclined to try and solicit the older prince to take you to bed—you would have a good time, if the song held any truth, what with his giant veiny "host of dornish spear-men."
The Hammer's son, Valarr, was married so that was that, you were not exactly desperate enough to be a homewrecker.
The Anvil's sons, Prince Daeron and Aerion were close to you in age, you found, neither of them had any tales or accounts that tugged at your heartstrings, they were not particularly the type of men you would swoon over. You liked your gentlemen older, leaving you only two choices, their fathers.
The older prince seemed the kind to humor a young maiden and allow you his time and conversation, but the younger prince? You were unsure of him, the man would most likely kick you right out, you doubted someone with as many sons and daughters, many of which were described with distasteful words such as "disappointing" and "monsterous", a man who had to take care of such a brood alone would not care nor have the time or energy for baser pleasures such as a woman's company.
But at a certain point during your little investigation and plans you decided not to overthink it. Princes they may be, they were no different than the men you've brought to heel before. A fact, self-evident and unchanged was as followed: there was nothing so undoing to a man than a lady's touch and smile. And you will prove it once again when those black and red banners finally show themselves in Ashford Meadow.
"Our Lord of Ashford humbly welcomes the great and honorable Baelor Targaryen, firstborn son of King Daeron the Good, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King and heir to the Iron Throne," the Herald might as well pause to drink some water from how many titles he had to mention and no one would fault him for it.
And if his titles hadn't made you dizzy, the man himself made sure to make it so you were. Draped in Targaryen black, he took your breath away; with his broad shoulders, his greying hair and beard that only emphasized how handsome he was.
He towered over them all even from your perch on the stands above, you were thankful for your bastardy then, because you knew you would make a fool of yourself if he were before you now, and smiled at you like that.
"and his brother, Maekar." The herald rushed in a near stumble of words, that misstep not missed by the man heralded, you were certain his name was not said correctly either—or you thought you were certain, at least.
Was it 'may-kar' or 'my-kar'? Maybe the herald was onto something with that 'mee-kar'.
Oh who in the hells cared?
That chain of thought that only sprang out as a futile distraction from the intense heat and dizziness you felt when you saw his brother was abandoned as quickly as your mind took it up, because what little sense remained—what little he spared you at the sight of him—reminded you that you mustn't even be here.
And so you retreated back within the castle with your marching steps matched with the rushing rhythm of your heart. Your quickened pace made some castle servants slow their own to see if you were well, some instead staring at your retreating form with a raised eyebrow, wondering what managed to chip at the Lady Flowers' polished poise so much so that she would rush in a manner so unlike herself.
In the solar that doubled as a chamber for guest reception, you waited, willing away all the jitters you felt as you inspected the bowls of fruits laid out on the table for what felt like the hundredth time but truly was the fifth.
It would not do to lose composure like this.
You believed that you've perfected the art of pretending.
Ever since you've known what it meant, you've been a pretender.
You've pretended to not notice the little slights of Lady Ashford, the biggest of all being the creation of your moniker: "Lady Flowers."
It used to wound, but now you were numbed to such artless mockery.
Adding to that your many dresses being devoid of the Ashford sun, but each generously overflowing with flowers from the tops of the bodice down to the base of the skirts—each petal a reminder, underhanded yet as clear as that sun you were deprived of for so long.
It was only after your sweet sister's insistence that you would match her in garments when you finally got the chance to know what it felt to bear the sun—it felt empty.
Your grandest performance was in pretending that it did not annoy or upset you how many times you were thrown onto lords for alliances that would never bear fruition, because no matter how charmed a man would be he would much rather marry the daughter of a greater lord to better serve his position, you were momentary, an alluring distraction that was to be forgotten the second the hoofbeats of departure drummed their way out of town.
You did not understand what your father hoped to gain from this. Did he think the princes—the heir apparent and the man who was more soldier than prince—would ever think to ask for your hand?
It was laughable—but hey, at least you would be spending time with Him, and if you were lucky it would be until the morning, your father would not shame you for it, apparently—annoyingly. It seemed your "whoring" was acceptable if it was with a prince.
Speaking of, you could hear a march of steps and your father's voice following along the sounds, carrying on a conversation you'd rather not interrupt. With a deep breath, you smiled gently and charmingly, the smile of a lady who has never been tense a day in her life, the smile of a lady that doesn't know the meaning of trouble, but would be down to get up close and personal with it — the smile men liked to see.
The silver-haired prince did not even realize you were there, as did most of them, not even your father realized you were in the room, but you did not truly blame them, because you stood in their blind-spot beside the solar's entrance, and you did not announce yourself, who were you really, even your lord-father let the conversation proceed without him, so why interfere?
The older prince saw you first, his gaze sweeping, eyes sharpened with the honed perceptiveness of a man who had to learn to count every head and to whose body they were connected to before he could let his guard down for even a second in any room he stepped into.
You held his gaze, his eyes of light and dark unfaltering in their focus.
They were pretty, you decided, especially when they flitted down to take you in. The motion quick and one you wouldn't have noticed if you weren't staring back at him.
Perhaps staring directly at a prince was insolence, but he did not seem to mind, so neither should you.
Your smile grew wider, the nerves you felt settled down, he was as gallant as they all said, respectful and humble, gentle and kind with the servants, calm and understanding with his agitated brother. Regardless of his lack of respect for his hosts, deeming your sister's nameday celebrations a "miserable circus."
Your father turned around and nearly jumped in place, making the princes turn sharply to where he was staring, your name burst out of his lips in a shout.
Your smile stayed unmoving, no matter how many times you scared your father like this it was always hysterical, it was made more amusing by how the hands of the princes found the hilts of their daggers in a flash, thinking there was some danger by the way your father jolted, you allowed yourself a passing glance at the older prince's hand—just for a moment.
"Your graces, allow me to introduce you," your father started as you walked towards him at the outstretch of his arm beckoning you close.
You gave a curtsy as you were introduced, just like those disdained septas taught you, back straight as an arrow when you bent down, swift and graceful. To your surprise (and utter delight) Baelor extended a hand, palm facing up in a polite and wordless request to take your hand in a kiss, a request you granted in a near instant with girlish eagerness shrouded by a lady's restraint.
Just before his lips touched your hand the booming voice of the Anvil had him draw back. You did not like that man—at all.
"You!" He shouted and all heads turned to the doorway to find what held the man's ire.
"Who are you? What do you mean by spying on us?"
A tall man timidly showed himself from behind the carved, curved wall, the way he believed that he hid himself well was comical, something told you that was a thing that happened to him a lot. No man of that stature can really blend anywhere, but his posture disagreed with him, he slouched as if that could make the prior statement untrue.
Having realized the impropriety of your proximity, that his hand was still holding onto yours, you pulled away reluctantly and took your place next to the steward, and you watched. Looked on to the hedge knight's appeal to the prince, who only responded with grace and patience, unlike his brother who kept on interrupting, disgruntled by everything.
The admiration you held for him only grew stronger and stronger. You've never met a nobleman that was as devoid of arrogance as he. To remember a hedge knight, a stranger one met once upon a joust was not something any would bother doing, but he did.
It was refreshing, and you could tell the knight thought so too, having been turned away by so many men who have had his old master nearly die countless times under their service but were too entrenched in their own splendor to care about him over his lack of a great noble name. You were happy for him, truly, it was your sincerest hope that he would win, if not you wish he'd be agreeable to having his horse and armor bought back by a lady and not prattle on about propriety and how it would be unseemly for him to let a woman spend her silvers on him, he seemed the type, you could see it in his big doe eyes.
Now that you thought about it—does he even own any armor? Seemingly not, from that sorry string of rope tied around his waist acting as belt.
After all was said and done, and the hedge knight took his leave, you felt that it was your turn. You were done with the prelude; You have introduced yourself to them, might even go as far as to say that you already held their interest—Baelor more so than Maekar, you could not tell if the latter's looks were of interest or not, what with his scowl etched deep in his face, he was offended by your presence, most like.
But Baelor?
Everything pointed to him taking a liking to you—it was exciting. His mindful eyes spread a pleasant warmth at the core of your stomach, spreading outwards, like the warmth of a hot drink in a cold winter's night. If only that hedge night hid himself better, maybe you'd know what his lips felt like on your skin, you wonder if you might've fainted then if only his eyes had caused butterflies to swirl in your stomach.
The tall doors of your father's chambers loomed overhead — you stared blankly at them, but the frustration was close to showing itself on your face.
Mind absent, you didn't hear the footsteps approach.
"If you mean to speak to your lord-father, my lady," a genteel voice that was sure to haunt your dreams cut through the fog surrounding your mind. "you will not find him here—he has been kind to allow me residence in his chambers for the time being."
The surprise lasted hardly a second before you quelled it and gave him a curtsy. It wasn't that you hadn't known about this lodging agreement, it didn't surprise you at all when you were informed of it, your father is arguably the physical manifestation of sycophancy, it was more embarrassing than anything else if you were to be honest.
"Your grace," you greeted with a small smile. "I did not know of this change—I apologize,"
"Do not apologize, this is your home," Baelor reassured with a small smile.
Quietly, you nodded. "I will not disturb you any longer, your grace."
"Enjoy your night," you said as you passed him and the kingsguard whose name you did not know. Perhaps you could have made an excuse and said you wanted to take back something of yours, a necklace, a book, anything, you were sure he would be kind enough to let you in — but did you want to disturb him after such an eventful night and day? His patience and hospitality surely had limits.
Baelor's gaze followed your retreating form—eyes drifting down despite himself at the bare of your back—he watched until you left the corridor and his vision turned their focus towards Ser Willem, who watched the doorway you exited through with some unfounded interest—still.
The scene irked him, the man should approach his duty with the mindfulness and zeal it required—not stare stupidly like a love-struck boy.
"Ser Willem," the call of his name snapped the knight out of his stupor. "the lady is no threat— be sure to mind your manners," he said before striding off to his bedchamber, the knight following behind with a lowered head.
"I understand, your grace," the knight replied respectfully, head inclined.
The prince only gave a hum in response, eyeing him before he stepped into the unfamiliar room.
Baelor had only been here once, the feeling of discomfort he felt then remained even now—especially now. Because he could only think about it's owner's daughter, the odd feeling of want made even odder now that he inhabited the man's quarters.
It seemed that everywhere he looked he could only find the sun, whether carved into wood or stones, that sun-in-splendor would look back at him. It was not a bad thing, not quite, he found it rather amusing—until a flash of your sun-shaped pendant which hung too low off your chain crossed his mind's eye. It was not amusing then.
He stroked the spines of books as he walked along the towering bookcases, hoping that he would find something boring enough to make him drowse off as soon as he could, and stop himself from thinking about those cheeky eyes and soft hands.
Half an hour passed and he has already discarded two books, the third making the same mistake as the ones prior and failing in its job to distract him.
The headache did not help ease his plight, after a minute of massaging his temple he decided he didn't want to be in this place anymore.
"You may rest now, Ser," Baelor dismissed the knight. Ser Willem thanked his prince with some reluctance in his voice, but he didn't argue and took his leave.
He stepped onto the sundeck, eager to just get some cool air on his skin and into his lungs. Leaned onto the banisters, he took a deep breath.
A grinning honeyed voice to his right made itself known.
"Can't sleep, your grace?"
He turned, the motion quick and graceless—unlike him.
You were here.
Leaned on the palm of your hand and cross-legged with a bottle of wine beside a cyvasse board sat on the table, you had a finger playing with a dragon piece, your soft digit petting it's head with slow and gentle motions, and for a moment, an absurd feeling of envy crossed his heart.
"My lady," he greeted calmly after regaining his composure from the surprise and quite honestly, the scare. "I apologize, I did not realize you were here."
"It's alright," you reassured smilingly. "it seems like this is a habit of mine."
"Not being noticed?" Baelor questioned with a tilt of his head, he could not believe that for a second.
You hummed as you frowned, matching the tilt of his head with one of your own, looking thoughtfully at something in the far distance. He almost apologized for the offense he caused before you spoke up again.
"No, I have no issues with that," you said, then grinned again. "I meant my habit of scaring the living daylights out of the poor souls around me."
"and it seems you are my victim for the night," you said playfully and casually before raising the goblet to your lips—unknowing of the less than innocent thoughts those reckless words put in his head, dishonorable thoughts unbecoming of a man like him.
"Sorry for that, your grace."
"You needn't worry about that, I was hardly startled," Baelor lied with a smile, pleased that you hadn't run away yet. His eyes found the table once more. He was not unfamiliar with this game, but he would not say he understood nor knew much of it, busy as he was and will be for the rest of his life, most like.
"Will your friend be returning? I may leave if you wish – I would hate to intrude on your fun," He inquired, eyes set on the pieces that were out of place, who was with you? that ridiculous feeling returned to him.
"No, there is no one, I was playing with myself," you replied casually as if what you just said doesn't sound deranged to anyone with ears to hear and a mind to process.
Baelor did not comment. He sat down across from you.
"I must confess, I've never gotten to play this," he confessed.
"Too busy huh?" You asked and he nodded, smiling steadily.
"I have seen it firsthand many moons ago, a Volantene trading caravan passed King's Landing on route," he told you as he held up an ivory colored piece, examining it, it's details, the timbered feel of it. "among the many items was this game—I dare say I've never seen the courtiers more enthralled by a pastime that was not a tourney nor a feast."
"I imagine they were more docile then," you commented offhandedly, and he laughed, the sound pleasant but carried a degree of exhaustion that told you everything you needed to know.
"Oh no—no," he refuted gently. "the court is not a place for serenity, but I will admit it was… amusing to watch them compete."
Baelor looked at the disorganized board with a pair of pieces in his hand, he had the look of a lost man trying to finish a task with no instruction. He thought that maybe he should have paid more attention as he spectated Valarr and Matarys' games the few times he sat with them of late.
"Where do these go, my lady?" He asked you, lost and unsure.
"The pieces go wherever you want them to — it is a game of strategy," you explained, gathering the pieces on your side in a line, readying them for introductions.
"I can teach you the rules, then you can best decide where each piece should be—" you looked up to him with a glint in your eyes. "—that is assuming you do want to play with me, of course."
Baelor hoped that he would have enough patience and willpower to survive the night without any tainted thoughts to sully his mind. "Enlighten me, my lady." You slid the cup you were sipping on to his side, and he only realized then that there was only one. "You will need some of this to ease the headache this will bring you, your grace."
What you told him was no lie, the rules of this game were hard to take in, but he learned regardless. Time passed by, and he hasn't won a single game yet, but he was not particularly interested in winning.
Strangely, the game was not the main source of his fun, it was your conversation. You spoke with him like he was an old friend, not a prince. You spoke to him so naturally, you weren't afraid to tease and taunt, you made him question his moves with a tsk and a smirk in your eyes, not going easy on him nor letting him win—and he let you, it felt freeing in a way.
"Do you believe in spectres, my prince?" you asked, your catapult taking his dragon again. His brow arched at the strange turn of conversation – not in mockery, of course – it was a bit unexpected to go from telling him (or taunting him) on how you were going to win this match in three moves to discuss whether dead spirits walked among you.
"I could not say," he replied honestly, trying to assess whether this was a tactic to throw him off his game or not, finding no answer in your lovely eyes.
You smiled. "So… it's a no then?"
"The world is full of oddities, I am impartial on the matter of their existence, the fact I haven't seen one does not dispute that they are real." A snicker left you, he was taking the question too seriously. Baelor gave an amused smile in response.
"May I ask why you have brought this up?"
"Word has it that our castle is haunted by a ghost of a young girl—or it was haunted—it has been a while since anyone spoke of seeing her, although some servant girls swore recently that it was her behind unexplained happenings: such as slammed doors, or that it was her who called them awake by name when they tried to fall asleep, commanding them to do their work,"
"Do you believe any of it?" He asked, eyes on you and unblinking when his king fell and you won once again.
"I do not," you responded as you sat back. "anyone would attribute the doings of the wind and a half-asleep mind to a ghost if they were tired enough, especially if their madame overworks them for nameday preparations,"
"There has to be some explanation to what the servants have seen all those years ago," he said.
A grin fought it's way to your lips again despite your attempts at resisting it, mischief danced in your eyes once more, like you knew more than you were letting on and were itching to reveal it. "The only plausible explanation is that it was merely a prank blown out of scale, there was only so much to talk about that wasn't about the war at that point in time, it was no wonder they clung to the tale."
Baelor hummed thoughtfully before his hands finally moved to rearrange the pieces back in place, this time with the same setup as before.
"It was you wasn't it?" He accused.
A laugh tore through the silence that followed, all sunny and mirthful. "What gave it away?"
Baelor looked at you as if you said something preposterous, he chuckled with an arched brow. "You all but confessed with how knowing you looked, and with your penchant to joke and terrify it was hardly a challenge to connect the dots."
His smirk fell into a gentle smile. "It was good of you though, to distract them,"
Your gleeful gaze turned something coy when it left his. "You flatter me, your grace, I've only done it because I found it funny, nothing more, nothing less,"
Since it didn't seem like you'd relent, Baelor decided to leave it at that and gestured to the board with one hand. "Your turn to start I believe."
"Hm…" You looked at the board, lost in thought — for a moment — the better way to describe the look you had now was one of a trickster in bliss, by the way you tried to hide your scheming grin behind a lonesome finger to no avail, he could not help but smile when your eyes met his. Whatever you had planned he was eager to uncover it.
But uncover Baelor did not, he could not — because how could he expect that your scheme would be turning the board the opposite way? "This is hardly permitted, my lady," Baelor said as he accepted defeat and took in the formation of the pieces that were now his and wondered, should he start trying?
"Oh it's not permitted—but isn't it more fun this way?" You told him, the curl of your lips all happy and sly-like, satisfied with your little ploy.
"I will allow this, but you will be making the first move," he told you.
"Whatever my prince wants," you told him, the silvery words light and teasing, sending his thoughts into frenzy, longing fantasies with you as the sole focus clouded his mind and urged his breaths to quicken ever so slightly.
The silence only fanned the flames of chaos in his mind.
"May I ask you something, my lady?" Baelor said, making you look at him curiously. "Of course," you responded.
"You were not in attendance for the first tilt this evening—how come?"
When he could not find you, he had assumed you were tired or disinterested in such activities. However, owing to all he learned about you in these past few hours you shared—your liveliness and love for your sister—it made little sense that you have not come to enjoy the tourney in her honor.
"No," you said coolly. "I was there."
His brows furrowed in confusion, were you teasing him again? "But I could not find you?" With your chin rested atop your interlocked fingers, you smiled wickedly.
"Oh? Were you looking for me, my prince?"
"I was only curious where you might have been," Baelor replied, the warm hues of the candlelight hid the flush on his face, or he hoped they did.
That impish grin of yours fell into a gentle smile, finding the reaction to his blunder so endearing you decided to have mercy on him.
"I was in the crowd," you shivered, the action causing the strap of your dress to slip off your shoulder, you giggled as you recalled the events and raised the fabric back in place, unaware of his wistful gaze at your skin. "had the closest view of Lord Tully's sensational stunt,"
"That was dangerous," Baelor said, voice steady and stern, but you did not pick up on his meaning.
"I would not be concerned if I were you, the man must have done it so many times I doubt any raw fish would make him sick–" you said laughingly until Baelor cut you off.
"That was not what I was referring to—you should not have been down there—had you even brought any guards along with you?"
"No—there was no need for that," you said, confused by his sudden lecture. He gave you a questioning look. "How so?"
A momentary silence passed over the both of you. It would be a lie to say his concern hadn't sent warmth through you, but you were not about to get scolded for allowing yourself to have a bit of fun without having to sit with people you had to mind your manners with or else you would not hear the end of it. It was only for this night anyway, surely you can be allowed that little freedom?
"I am a woman grown, and there is no shortage of gallant men to save me should anything happen, that is discounting the ashford guards out and about the meadow vehemently instructed by my own lord-father to keep the peace—how could I not walk around without fear or care?"
Baelor's chest rose and fell with heavy, irritated breaths as he sat silently, as he looked at you silently. It was maddening how you could not see the danger behind your actions, yet your words did not lack in sense. You were right, but your reasoning—even if sound—did not ease his anxieties.
"Were you not allowed in the stands? and at this evening's supper?" Baelor questioned, restlessly twisting the ring around his finger. He did not understand, Lord Ashford hardly looked ashamed of you, no, he was more than happy to introduce you. Had anyone advised him against it? He hadn't done nor said anything to make anyone think your presence bore any insult to him or his, quite the opposite, so why?
An exhale of a laugh left you, both sardonic and entertained. No, you were not forbidden to attend, the Lord and Lady of Ashford would not pass up an opportunity to have you paraded around with so many princes, lords and landed knights about. Because if the princes did not care for you, other options should be explored.
"It was a personal choice of mine to watch the tilt where I had," you said, coldly, or perhaps it felt that way to him, he could not tell, all he knew was your warm smile and sweet laugh, the lack of them felt jarring.
"as for supper," you continued, practiced smile finding it's home on your lips. "I was not hungry." That was in a way, a lie. You had your fill—but your absence wasn't due to a full stomach—you were largely preoccupied with what you might do or say to him, figuring out which dress appeared the prettiest in the low light (or which of them slipped off easiest), cleaning off the sweat of your outing beforehand, making sure the most fragrant of oils scented the waters of your bath and now your skin, the kind you knew to turn men's heads — but you could not tell him any of that.
Imagine if you had, though, he did let you get away with so many comments and jokes that should have had you in the cells before daybreak, as soon as you verbalized them, matter of fact. "I was actually busy planning how to seduce you, your grace." Yeah… Hilarious.
So hilarious, in fact, that you decided to say it as is.
Shock, confusion, then denial crossed his face in quick succession. He chuckled, the sound betraying his confused, nervous mind and emotions, his fingers grew even more restless as they twisted and twisted that ring around. "Is this your version of an ice-breaker, my lady? because it is not as humorous as you think"
"I may have said like it in jest," you replied, eyeing him for any further reactions, heart thudding all the while. "but I spoke no lie."
"My lady, this is…" Baelor could not find the right word, or rather; He could not say it without feeling like a hypocrite.
"Inappropriate?" You finished for him cheekily. "You cannot truly believe that, was it not you who decided to sit here with me for hours, laughing and sharing wine, all while unchaperoned?"
"A lapse in judgment, a mistake I will not repeat again." Baelor responded firmly, guilt, longing and regret warring in his mismatched eyes. He stood and you followed suit, blocking his escape.
With a finger playing with the tip of his blade's hilt, you smiled, the curl of your agonizingly soft lips almost innocent, as if you were not shredding what little remained of his self-control into pieces. The space between you was far too narrow, so narrow he could catch the scent of lavender and incense with his every breath.
To him no one acted as audacious, as brazen and fearless as you were, it left him amazed how you could just speak like that, to the crown prince no less, but he had to admit to himself if not to you that it was admirable — to speak so freely, never had he such a freedom. What he had no knowledge of was your shaking hand, hidden and clenched into a fist behind your back, you were terrified.
"It was not a lapse in judgment," you countered, watching his jaw clench as his once steady eyes flitted up and down your face. "you knew exactly what you were doing; what you wanted." You stepped closer to him, expecting him to step away, but he did not, urging you on.
"You have spent your whole life working to achieve the realm's needs and wants—but what about you?"
You pressed yourself close to him, taking his face in hand, the scratch of his scruffy beard pleasant on your palm as you ran it up slowly, reverently, the heavy scent of musk and agarwood fueling your desire for him even more. Your other hand rested on his chest, feeling his heartbeat hammer in rhythm with yours. Feeling bolder at his lack of rejection, you leaned your face closer to his, and whispered: "What about your needs and wants?"
Baelor felt helpless.
He had to leave, but his legs failed him. He had to push you away, but his hands cradled your face. He had to pull back, but his nose nuzzled at yours. Every voice in his head screamed at him to run — it took the slightest brush of your lips on his to silence them. Just one brush — and what little restraint he had crumbled into dust.
He pressed you hard against him, his other hand tangled in your hair as he kissed you, lips moving against yours fervently. His tongue lapped at yours, he recognized the sweet taste of arbor red on your tongue, despite that, it was the taste of you that intoxicated him, that urged him to keep losing himself in you.
This must be the relief and ecstasy singers and poets sung about so fervently, the feeling one felt after securing their heart's desire after so many years spent hungering for it, he was so lost in that feeling that he nearly forgot of his need to breathe. It was only when you pushed at his chest that he drew back to relieve the restrictive tightness in your chests.
Baelor's hand wandered up and down your naked back, relishing in the shivers his touch caused you. "You will regret wearing such light clothes, my lady," he warned, breath warming your ear. "the night will grow cold soon."
"I do not mind it," you confessed laxly. "that chill only promises that the warmth beneath the covers would feel even sweeter. Rain is always more cherished after a drought, is it not?"
Baelor looked at you and took in the swell of your lips, that hungry feeling gnawed again and he bent down for another kiss, only to pause midway when your wandering hand found the hard line of his cock and squeezed, the sensation caused him to back you onto the table and grip at the edges of the table to hold himself upright.
His groans and pants were music to your ears—to think you were once nervous to meet him—it was only when you had the gall to let out an exhale of a laugh that he took your hand off of him, holding it up by the wrist.
"You believe this funny?" He questioned as he stared at your self-satisfied expression, voice low and tinged with a hint of offense.
"No, my prince, I was only thinking that we could have been at this sooner if I had been bolder,"
"Bolder?" He repeated, more to himself than you, not believing his ears. "There's not a single drop of meekness in your body."
"There could be many drops of you in it, if you wished it so," you offered mischievously. Baelor sighed, exasperated but no less entertained by your tempting words. "Hush now," he said, silencing your giggles with his mouth as he slipped the loose strap of your dress down your shoulders, delighting in the noise that left you when he felt and squeezed at your soft breast.
"Hands on the table," Baelor said, breathless and gaze as hazy as your own, his pupils eclipsed the pretty rings of violet and brown. You obeyed with bated breath, mind in conflict with your body, was it wise to do this here? He had that Kingsguard with him, didn't he? You didn't trust yourself to be quiet when he finally fucked you. That chain of thought was quickly abandoned, it was hard to think when you had a handsome prince reverently caressing up and down your front as he whispered words to you in a language you could not understand when he was not kissing and mouthing at your shoulder.
Just when you were about to voice your impatience, his hands left your body and you heard a clattering sound. You turned your gaze downwards to see his rings laid on the table, discarded. The implications caused that ache at your groin to strengthen, only for it to alleviate when his fingers found home, moving slow — too slow.
"You are wet," Baelor observed, gathering the wetness with smooth strokes up and down your folds, circling at your clit and going low again—his voice was too smug in your opinion. "Too wet—and you've no underthings either. You've been waiting for this moment—haven't you?"
"I—ah!" You could not get a word in before he suddenly slid in a pair of his fingers, the motion smooth and swift. Maybe you were too sensitive. Maybe it was that your body wanted him as much as your heart or that you fantasized about his hands too much — but just those two long boney fingers were enough to make your legs shake and your knees buckle under you. Baelor held you up against him with his free arm, and he chuckled. You were sure he did it on purpose, entering you just when you were about to speak. In your daydreams, you expected him to be far more gentle, but maybe it was just the fruits of your labor, poking and prodding at him the way you did — you liked this side of him, maybe you could make him worse in the best way.
Baelor listened to your poor attempts at staying quiet, moans and cries of "my prince" prettying the silence of the night. He considered keeping the fact that no one could hear you to himself, only for a bit of time, but his better nature won out.
"There's no one but us, love," Baelor told you, he could tell you were about to come off the edge by the way your walls convulsed around his fingers. "you can be as loud as you want."
"My prince—I'm so close," you whined, gripping hard at the edges of the table under you. "I know—I know, you can let go now." A cry left you as your vision went white from the intense pleasure. He slowed his fingers and let you ride down your high. You sighed as he pulled them out, then took deep breaths to regain your composure. This wasn't enough, and when you turned and looked at him, you knew he shared your opinion.
Shivers ran up your skin — the promised cold finally filling the night air.
"Come with me," you said, pulling the straps of your dress back on your shoulder, a plea in your eyes. "my bedchambers aren't too far," you pulled at his belt. "I've yet to return the favor."
Baelor looked down at you, breathing heavily, he could not ignore the throbbing ache of his groin. He took your hand in his and squeezed. "Lead the way."
You tried to contain your eagerness but fell short when it came to steadying your pace — practically dragging the man through the halls like you were late for an important matter—in a way (to the both of you)—this was something long overdue.
Fondness stirred in him at your impatience, he could not recall the last time he wanted—needed someone so badly, and it was only made all the better by knowing that those feelings were not one-sided.
Baelor let you guide him into the darkness of your bedchambers. Immediately, that same maddening scent surrounded his senses, sharpened by the dimmed candlelight and his fierce craving for you.
The same craving that compelled him to pull you so strongly by the waist and into him it tore a gasp out of you that he silenced with a deep kiss. A thud sounded as his belt met the floor along with it's sheathed blade, a clink followed and resounded in the far corner as the brass hand pin met the stone floors, his movements practiced and unneeding of sight. You separated to help him undress, rearing back with a playful smile when he tried to chase after your lips.
"I cannot help you if my hands have no eyes to guide them, my prince," you teased, helping him out of his surcoat and tunic, you ran your hands through his dark chest hairs that somehow felt both rough and soft beneath your palms, raising them up to cradle his face and pull him into a kiss when he bent down to drop his breeches.
Baelor groaned into your mouth when he felt a pressure press onto the tip of his cock and circle, teasing him the way you teased the hilt of his forgotten blade, the way you petted at the head of that ivory dragon piece. Backpedaling until he fell onto the bed, Baelor pulled at the back of your thighs, coaxing you into his lap with your knees on either side of him.
You thumbed at his cheek as you looked down on him. "I want to try something, my prince." Pulling you close with his arms wrapped tight around your hips, he groaned at the friction this position caused.
He called your name for the first time, your lips parted, arousal sparking the hot feeling into a blaze, every intonation and syllable flowing off his tongue liquid sex to your ears. "I think we are past such pleasantries—call me Baelor."
"Baelor," you repeated, grin wide and eyes half-lidded. "may I try something with you?"
"You may," he gave consent, curious to see what you had in store, frowning when you pulled his arms off and breath slowing when you knelt down, he spread his knees apart instinctively. Baelor's mouth fell open with an exhale when your tongue lapped at the tip of his cock, glistened with all the precum accumulated after all that messing about.
It tasted better than your fantasies, the salty, earthy taste made you drool for more. His sounds and tight grip on the gathered hair of your roots urged you to take more of him in, to do more—but you did not. You kept circling at his leaky tip, teasing, kissing it gently, wanting to test his patience, see if you can break under that courteous demeanor again.
"If you begin a task, you should give your all to finish it," Baelor huffed, jaw clenched in frustration, you could tell he was holding back. He resisted the involuntary jerks of his hip up into your mouth, gripping tight at the sheets on his side. You drew back and licked your hips, gaze holding his, insolent, he thought.
"I'd like to take my time with you, it is not every night I have a man so handsome on my bed,"
Baelor pinched your chin between his fingers, gazing down at your all-too-pleased expression. "You want me to beg and plead—is that it?" He surmised, it all aligned in his mind. All you did was torment him from the moment you locked eyes, it was as if you were sent to him as a test to his patience, he was failing at it miserably. It was laughable, decades of self-governance and restraint sharpened by endless trials and adversities hounded onto him by his own blood, his own people, undone by one devilish smile from you.
"No, it is not," you replied, innocent in the face but not in your intentions. "I want you to make me beg and plead."
His breath hitched and he cursed, the words unfamiliar to his tongue. "Unruly thing," Baelor grunted, frustrated, grasping the side of your head. "you will be the death of me." He pushed your head down to his cock—finally, you thought, taking him in your mouth with a moan, rubbing your thighs together for some friction to soothe the torturous sensation you felt.
"Does it please you this much?" Baelor asked, impressed, watching you take more of him in with lidded eyes, hand stroking and twisting where your mouth could not. "Drooling and gagging all over my cock?" You did not answer, lost in the taste of him and the pleasured sounds you drew from his lips. Maybe it was the fact he has been anticipating this for a while. Maybe it was the pent-up years catching up to him, or that you were so good at pleasing him, but he was reaching his limit embarrassingly fast. He had to push you off.
After catching your breath, you looked up at him, wanting to search his face, finding his head thrown back and chest heaving as he tried to keep himself from spilling over you. "Have I done something wrong?"
Baelor did not answer, preferring to stand instead. "Rise," he commanded, firmly, and you obeyed, not being able to get a word in before he hoisted you up by your thighs, making you lock your legs around his waist and arms around his neck instinctively while he climbed onto the bed.
"You're so–" strong, you wanted to say, but your breath was stolen from you, your noses clashing when he could not decide which angle you tasted better. He removed the arms you had interlocked around his neck and sat back on his heels, pinning you down by the base of your neck when you tried to sit up. "Stay there," he ordered, and you obeyed with an impatient huff, aroused at the way he acted, the way he moved you like it was nothing.
"No wonder they all sing your praises, all those tales and songs," you drawled, eyes shamelessly looking over his arms, hand gripping at his wrist while the other clutched tightly at the sheets. "Oh?" Baelor responded, letting you drag his palm down your body, making him cup your soft breast. "And what do they say, exactly?"
"They spoke of your strength, your composure," you recounted, moaning distractedly as he pinched your nipple. "your good honor and your enormous…. hard… effort in winning the war." You laughter turned into a mewl when you felt him stretch you out in one smooth thrust. "I'm beginning to—fuck— question the bits about your composure and good honor," you managed, eyes hazy as you watched him lower to hover his face over yours. "Beginning to question?"
"You dare say that when you were the one who ruined me?" Baelor grunted, drawing back and pushing in hard, savoring the expressions and delicious moans you gave him, pinning your hands with one of his by the wrists when you tried hushing them. "Do not get shy on me now, sly girl, let me hear you."
No words could describe how good he felt inside you—and surprisingly but not so much—how grateful you felt for the ego that led your father into extending an invitation to the dragon house, you shuddered to think of a world where you never met this otherworldly man, a world where you never get to hear his voice or have a taste of his loving was a nightmarish thing to even think about.
You tried to kiss him but he evaded your lips, leaning back and smirking at your upset huff after he did it again. "Baelor…" You whined. "Hm?" He responded.
"You're acting cruelly."
"Am I?"
"Yes," moaning, you felt that same vein you ran your tongue over brush your insides incessantly. "Is this not what you wanted? You're quivering. What more could you possibly want?"
"Kiss me," you demanded when you should have pleaded.
"That's not how you ask for things," he reminded with heavy breaths, thumb trailing over your lips, taunting. "Baelor—please, kiss me—please," you begged, vision blurring from pleasure and tears. Baelor obliged, lips crashing with yours, his grip releasing your wrists to raise your legs higher, allowing his cockhead to reach even deeper, hammering into your cervix. In moments you could not even find the energy to kiss him, laying your head back from the intense sensations, you knew he was close too, his thrusts losing their constant rhythm.
As soon as you reached that sweet bit of ecstasy, he pulled out, chest heaving as he panted beside your head. "Baelor, why have you—" Your words turn to a gasp when he rolled you onto your stomach and pinned you under his weight, chest stuck to your back. "Not yet—I will love you thoroughly," Baelor promised, panting at your ear while he slid into you nice and slow.
"I will—mmh—still be here tomorrow," You reminded him, toes curling at the way his cock massaged your insides that still had not recovered from your release, at the way the head of it gently kissed your cervix. It was interesting, how he's made you come twice but he never allowed himself to feel it, not once. In the beginning you had not thought twice of it, plenty liked to chase that high over and over and not allow themselves to catch it too soon — but hearing what he said, you could not help but think that there was something deeper than mere fancy. Did he think you wanted this to be a one-time thing? Does he want it to be? "and the day after it too, I have nowhere else to be,"
"But you do," Baelor groaned. "only if you'd like." Your breathing hitched, for a multitude of reasons. His unexpected hold of your jaw pulling your head back into the crook of his neck, the scratch of his beard at the side of your face and the insinuation of his words. He wanted to take you with him; you will agree, you know you will, regardless of whether he wanted you as mistress or not, you did not care, as long as he was yours and you were his, it was the best you could ever hope for.
"Be my wife — come with me to King's Landing and I'll make you my princess,"
"But I am a—"
"Fuck that," Baelor said, not wanting to hear any of it. "there are no laws against it—and if there were I will marry you anyway." Pressing a kiss to your cheek, he spoke up again. "Would you like that?"
"I…" Your voice died in your throat, unbelieving of your ears, considering for a moment that perhaps you were in a fever dream, but no mind could think up a dream so lovely. "Very," was all you could muster. "Perfect—so perfect." Baelor groaned, breaths growing louder, deeper, you had an inkling it was not only about your agreeance. He slipped from you again, kneeling as he let your head drop to the soft sheets.
A wound-up noise left you while you stared back at the starry sky through your windows. "The sun will rise soon."
"I am sure." At the low, shaky words, you rolled onto your back to take in the exhausted state of him. "Do you not have somewhere to be early in the morn?"
He grinned weakly. "I heard there was a tourney at Ashford meadow."
"You will rue attending if you do not rest enough," You said, caressing the side of his face. "let me take care of you." His eyes flitted over your face, steady where his breathing was not. "Very well."
Smiling you had him lean up on the pillows and straddled him. His hands immediately found your hips as you lowered yourself on his cock, easily, your walls slick with your arousals beyond adjusted to take him in with no difficulty, a sigh escaped you both at the relief. It took no time before you were moving up and down in quick rhythm.
Baelor took one of your breasts in his mouth, licking and pulling with his lips, pushing you down to the hilt with his hands, your own anchored on his shoulders as you called for his name, blissfully, repeatedly. The only sounds echoing through the dark room were your cries, his quiet, pacifying words of a language you never got to learn, the lewd repetitive claps of skin on skin.
"Baelor!" You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, face hovering over his, movements stuttering and legs growing weaker. Broken curses poured from your lips when he bucked his hips up into you. "I can't–'m sorry." Buried deep and holding you tight, Baelor had you on your back, and with renewed strength immediately set a vigorous, merciless pace, pushing and pulling inside you, over and over and over—the nails digging into his back, the pretty moans and whine in his ear—all of it goaded him to keep going, determined to have you come again.
"How it ails me that I cannot stuff you full of my seed." Baelor inhaled deeply at your temple, relishing your scent, groaning like the mere act brought him pleasure. Your back arched into him at the thought. "You can—please, Baelor." He pressed a chaste kiss to the side of your face. "You know nothing of what you ask, love,"
"I can take it just—" a whimper "—let me."
"I know you would—and you will," Baelor believed you wholeheartedly, he can already imagine it, you, brimming with his love inside you, the thought filled him with so much warmth, so much pleasure. "you need only patience until we are wed." You shook your head desperately, the coil inside you uncomfortably wound. "I need you."
He hummed in lieu of a response, circling his fingertips on your clit, the rapid motions along with his rutting into your sweet spot materializing the light of day into your ever blurred, darkening sight. "You have me." The earnest, gentle but resolute words, coupled with everything else he was undoing you with, send you over the edge, ripples of pleasure surge through you and his motions falter ever so slightly, distracted by the way you shuddered, the way your slick walls gripped onto him. "That's it—fuck."
Baelor pulled away from you, hot ropes of cum gushing out and dirtying your abdomen. Guilt ridden apologies fell from his lips as he rutted into his fist until the last drop ran down his soaked tip. After your breaths slowed into a speakable rhythm, he got off the bed and asked you to stay lied back and wait, receiving a weak nod in response.
When he returned, a bucket and towel in hand—your favorite towel which you would grieve later, but you couldn't be bothered to care about now, not when Baelor cradled your face and brushed away at the wetness from your cheeks with both his thumbs, eyelids fluttering in shame. "I am sorry," he told you, voice hushed.
"Why?" You asked smilingly, shivering at the damp coldness the wet towel left in its wake. "I've been unkind, I should not have been so rough," Baelor explained, wringing the towel of it's water and continuing in his task, hands tender like you would shatter at the slightest bit of force — it was maddening how easily he made you want to kiss him. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you smiled, endeared, and took the towel from his hands and begun cleaning them. "But you know I wanted you to be."
"I do, but—" a chaste kiss interrupted his rant before it went out of hand, warmth spread through his face to his ears, as if he was not drilling into you minutes before, it gladdened you, this reminder that he wasn't merely lust that sent him after you—but adoration too.
"Hush now," you said, pushing him down onto the pillows, resting your head onto his chest.
A huff left him. "You know I must leave for my own quarters now," Baelor told you, as he encased you in his arms and let you enlace your fingers with his and play with them. "I was hoping you'd forget about that," you said distractedly, memorizing the shape and feel of his palm and fingers by touch.
"I have a tourney I would rather not be late for."
"Sleep here." His brow arched at the suggestion, lips curled in a smirk. "You know precisely why I cannot do that,"
"Why not? None would scold you for not being in bed, you are a guest and a prince at that, besides you will have to get used to–" a thumb gently swiping over your lips, hushed you. "As you wish—but only for a while, understand?"
Minutes of hushed conversation passed by, negotiations that ended in a two-way victory; you would spectate within the safety of the stands if he entered the lists, recommending the castle's smith to armor him cheekily when he tried to use his lack of armor as an excuse.
That hushed conversation turned into hours of soft snores, your warmth gently guiding him to slumber — sending the royal servants into a frenzied search when the only things they found of him were his abandoned rings scattered on the surface of that table.
saw this on pinterest and it wholly encapsulated baelor in this...
sorry for not being active a while was busy getting rolled by my crippling anxiety,,, i am good now so i can get going on the wips <33
feedback is appreciated, i'm an esl english major so it'll help my career a lot, okay maybe not so much on the smut part lol but ig for recreational purposes i can learn — hope you enjoyed!!
to be felled by you | baelor targaryen x fem!reader (18+)
update: pt.ii now out! / read on ao3
summary: It's your wedding night with the prince, and you're terrified he'll find out you're not a maiden
author notes: There's some plot before it gets to the explicit part. If you're into that, great! If not, this is the heads-up :)
content notes/warnings: explicit sexual content, baelor targaryen x reader, baelor targaryen x you, a sprinkle of sworn knight x reader, plot with smut, wedding night, arranged marriage, reader is not a virgin and stressed about getting found out, fingering, pinv sex, voice kink, dirty talk, soft dom baelor, mention of moon tea, canon universe, some period-accurate misogyny, alcohol, older man x younger woman, no use of Y/N, no beta read
word count: 2.6k words
dividers by @saradika-graphics and @strangergraphics
It's a great honor. You should be happy.
Those were the words that rang in your ears. You sat at the table laden with all the realm's delicacies; the scent of spilled wine mixed with the suffocating cloud of sweat from the dancers.
Every now and then, lords and ladies walked up to pay their respects, kneeling in front of you. In some ways, it worked out being stuck listening to their well-wishes and blessings: there was a lot on your mind.
It's a great honor.
Your handmaiden's words, as she braided your hair the day you were betrothed.
You should be happy.
Your cousin's words as she kissed you goodbye, with a glint of envy in her voice.
Do not dishonor our house.
Your father's last words to you as he walked you to the altar.
As the hours passed, you felt more like a convict waiting to be led to the gallows than a bride on her wedding day.
'Are you well, my lady?'
Startled, you looked to your right. The prince's hand was leisurely resting on yours; nothing too sentimental, but a gesture that sent the appropriate message for the room full of people.
'Of course, Your Grace,' you flashed him a reassuring smile, but had an unnerving feeling he wasn't convinced. Nevertheless, he didn't push it. He turned back to the lord who had strolled up to the table.
It was the most important night in the whole Realm. Prince Baelor, heir to the throne, took a new wife; you never thought it might be you.
But it just so happened that both your older sisters passed from fever. It left you with a dowry that rivaled that of the Lannisters, and the king wanted to unite his house with an ancient family.
Your father was elated. You always thought one day he'd ship you off to some old lord. It would be fine, you used to think, disappearing somewhere far. No one would pay you any mind ever again; no one would care what you did, or where you went, as long as you were there to warm your husband's bed. But this was different; married to the heir, you'd be watched forever.
If you knew, you would've been more careful; but you were so young, and thought that your life was going to end in some backwater keep with a lord thrice your age, who couldn't even see who he was screwing.
So when you found yourself in your young and handsome sworn shield's embrace, you let him have you. You just wanted to feel something, and the moment his hand brushed yours was like a dam that broke in you. You promised yourself it was just that one time, but one time became another, and another. You didn't recognize the person you were when with him. You were drinking in those nights like you knew they had to sustain you for the rest of your life.
You confided in your handmaiden; like she told you to, you reached carefully for a small knife by your plate. Making sure no one saw you, you tucked it into the sleeve of your dress. The cool steel resting against your skin was unsettling.
You shot a look over at the prince, making sure he did not see you just then. He was watching the crowd with a calculating gaze. You prayed–though you weren't sure who would listen–that he didn't notice the absence of your sworn knight.
You saw him last night. The hour was late, but you were awake, pacing nervously in front of the window. It was unwise, but you took him to bed.
A bit later, he donned his armor silently and turned to you:
'My lady, I will surrender my post in the morrow. I hope you can forgive me.'
You sat up, covering yourself with the sheets.
'You're leaving? Where?'
'Wherever they'll have me. I cannot serve under your new husband's banner. I've sullied my honor,' he said without meeting your eyes.
'People will talk... more so if you leave right before the wedding–'
'You will be queen one day. No one can touch you.'
'I am not queen yet!' you began to panic, 'Do you understand what they might do with me, if it's found out that–'
'Forgive me, my lady.'
He left, and like he said, by the morning he was gone.
It was when a quarrel broke out amidst a group of drunk men that Baelor signaled the servants and handmaids over.
They led you to Baelor's room: you'd never seen it before and weren't sure what to expect. Likely something grand, opulent.
To your surprise, when you stepped inside, you were greeted by a spacious but dimly lit room with sprawling bookcases. By the window stood a large table with candles that melted into mounds. In the middle was a bed covered in a rich golden duvet, and near it was a lit fireplace. It was actually somewhat... welcoming.
And it almost made you forget that you had to act fast. You hurried up to the bed and ran your hand under the mattress, looking for a dent. The silk sheets were pleasantly cool against your fingertips. You found a place where you could nicely hide the knife and find it later; you reached into your sleeve and pulled it out.
When you were sure the knife was neatly tucked in, you smoothed the blanket and turned to find Baelor standing in the doorway, watching you quietly.
The blood froze in your veins.
How long had he been standing there? How did you not hear him coming? Did he see... Gods, did he think...
'It's not what it looks like, Your Grace...' your voice quavered, and the ice in your veins morphed into hot mortification when you realized that your fate could turn even darker. If they thought you were trying to hurt the prince...
'Like what, my lady?' his expression was impossible to read. You had no idea what was going on in his head as he considered you. It was like he had a drape up, keeping anyone from seeing inside.
It was this expression that you noticed when you first met him in your home. Even then, as you walked with him in your gardens, you couldn't tell how he felt about the match. But he sounded kind; you noticed that too. It was one reason you felt less scared about the marriage.
Even now, as he inquired of you, you noted the soft edges of his voice. As if he wasn't questioning you about why you just hid a knife in your wedding bed.
'Do not fret, my lady. I think you to be smarter than to attack the king's heir with a butter knife,' there was a light jest in his voice, which you found strange.
What were you supposed to say? That you were going to wait till he was asleep to cut yourself and stain the sheets, hoping he wouldn't figure out you were not a maiden?
Just bring the guards and send me back to my father, you thought, and closed your eyes. There would be hell to pay once your family found out. You'd be better off running away.
He walked up to his table, where a pitcher of wine and two goblets stood.
'Come,' he said, and you did.
He poured you a cup first, then one for himself. He drank, and you followed suit. You weren't sure what else to do. After a bit of consideration, he broke the silence.
'I thought you seemed troubled since this morning,' he said as he examined the wine in his cup, 'at first, I thought it was just the nerves.'
Oh gods.
'After all, you've been put under immense pressure. Your lord father is a severe man. You have your entire house's name riding on your shoulders,' he was looking at you now, with that same calculating gaze he watched everyone with. You felt yourself bend under the weight of it.
'But I think there's something else burdening you, isn't there?' he asked.
You shut your eyes and awaited the accusation.
'Is it your knight?' his voice was lower now. There was a barely noticeable waver in it; was it from containing his anger?
You carefully put the goblet on his table, and descended to your knees.
'I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. My lord father didn't know. It was not his fault,' you said with a shaking voice, and waited for the flood of his rage. To be cast aside; to be thrown out. To face the thunder that came next.
Except that it didn't.
'Rise, my lady,' he said, and poured himself another cup. After a bit of consideration, he asked:
'Are you with child?'
You shook your head.
'My handmaiden helped me source moon tea from the Grand Maester. I ordered her to. Please do not punish her,' before you could think, you told him. You could only hope he would have mercy on them.
'Does anyone else know?'
You shook your head again.
'Only my handmaiden and I. And my sworn knight. He resigned from his station this morning,' your voice was barely audible.
He stared into his cup just like before. A long silence, before he spoke again.
'Do you love him?'
Your eyes jumped to him: you expected him to sneer at you, to spit in your face, or, at best, dismiss you without another glance. But to this, you were unsure how to answer. You decided to tell the truth.
'I do not.'
He turned back to you.
'Why, then?,' he asked, with a small frown on his face. You could tell he was still studying you, but there was something else now, too. Puzzlement? Curiosity, perhaps?
You tapped your finger on the goblet, before you were able to answer.
'Because I wanted something for myself.'
The honesty of that surprised even you, but it was true.
Ever since you could remember, you felt a terrible dread hovering over your head; it felt like your life had ended before it could even begin. The first time you realized that feeling quieted was when your hands touched your knight's. It was after a tourney; he'd asked for your favor. He won, but was badly injured, and you visited him afterwards.
'Are you going to send me away, Your Grace?' you asked Baelor, waiting for the blow.
He considered you for a second, leaning against his table.
'Why would I do that?'
It was the second time he surprised you with something he said. You tried to read his face to see if he was perhaps mocking you, but it didn't seem so. He was genuinely asking.
'Because I am not a maiden. You married me believing you were getting a pure bride; I have deceived you,' you said, though it was strange you had to spell it out.
'That's not the reason I married you,' he said, with a strange level of calmness.
Everything about this conversation was curious. Seeing your frowning expression, he continued.
'This match was made because the king hoped to unite an ancient house with the crown. As far as that is concerned, you haven't erred. As for our personal hopes...'
He trailed off and fiddled with one of his rings, the one with the Targaryen sygil.
'It is my sincere hope that you can find happiness here. But if you wish to go home...' he looked into your eyes, and you were shocked to see his typical calculating watch gone. He seemed genuine.
'...If you wish to go home, there is still time.'
That, you didn't expect. You were so terrified of the prospect that it never crossed your mind that it would be presented to you as an option.
No, you did not want to go back home.
You walked to him; he watched you as you got closer, trying to read what you were going to say. He was always studying people like that: you noticed it from the moment you first met him. Perhaps as the Hand, he'd had to get accustomed to reading between the lines, planning moves as he spoke with lords. Trying to spot what someone's next motion might be, what they might say.
You were now in front of him; you felt his gaze on you. You stood there for a minute, in front of this invisible line. You wondered if he was going to move over it, when you realized: he was waiting for you to do so.
You reached your hand out and brushed it against his. You felt a whir in your ears at that touch; you'd been technically wed for hours but never been... like this.
He ran his fingers against your knuckles, then on your arm; you finally took the courage to look up at him. Your face was inches away: he'd kissed you before at the sept during your vows, but this was different. Then, thousands of eyes and the murmurs of spectators; this time, just the crackling of fire and the feel of his breath against your lips.
He closed the space between you, and you marveled at the softness. It made you smile. Your worries from earlier melted away as you went to rest your palms on his chest; he caressed your arm, planting soft kisses on your mouth.
You began to run your hand lower, and his breath hitched in response. He deepened the kiss, and you felt a pleasant jolt in your belly as his tongue entered your mouth.
'You said you wanted something for yourself,' he said between kisses.
'Yes, Your Grace...'
'Tell me what you want,' he breathed against your mouth, and it sent a shiver down your spine.
'Your Grace, I–'
'Baelor. Call your husband by his name.'
'Baelor...'
'Yes,' he said while he ran his mouth over your throat.
'Mm... Keep talking to me,' you said, shuddering at the feel of his stubble against your skin.
His voice was one of the first things you took notice of when you met him.
It was, in some ways, jarring when compared to his looks. He seemed serious, stern, intimidating even, with his ever-calculating gaze. So his voice held a tenderness you didn't expect: warm, raspy, dancing in a gentle but assured tone. When he talked, you felt... sheltered. That's what you noticed as you walked with him that afternoon, when he and his entourage arrived at your father's castle.
Now, hearing his words made your pulse quicken.
'Turn around for me.'
You did, and he unlaced your corset. When he hooked his fingers to remove it, you shuddered.
He had you facing him again as he ran his palm over your small clothes. He slipped his hand in, and you gasped at the contact. You could hear how wet you were for him already.
He studied your face as he touched you. Then, in a voice that sent a dull ache to your center, he said:
'Did he fuck you last night?'
Your mouth fell agape from the feeling of his fingers rubbing you, spreading your come, and from the question he just asked. Heat enveloped your face...
'I asked if he fucked you last night.'
Shame bubbled in you as you nodded–then cried out as he pushed two fingers inside you as a retort.
'Is that what you're doing on the night before you're wed?' his fingers pushed against that spot in you that made you buck against his palm.
'Fucking your knight in your bedchamber?'
'I'm sorry,' you pleaded, desperately digging your hands into the bedposts, as he worked on you with his hands.
'Could've come to me,' he said, leaning against your ear now, in a low voice, 'if you needed to be fucked so bad.'
That was all you needed; you came pulsing around his fingers, panting a string of apologies, over and over again. You pleaded for his forgiveness and promised yourself to him, as he made you his wife that night.
Can I get a Baelor drabble with insecurity in the relationship and breast play? I was thinking something involving the reader feeling insecure about having small breasts, but feel free to take it in whatever direction you think fits best.
A Handful
Baelor Targaryen X 2nd!Wife!Reader
Prompt: insecurity in the relationship/Breast play
Warning: Body image issues, comparing herself to Jena, “bra” stuffing, groping, F nudity, infront of the mirror 😉, breast play, titty kissing/sucking
WC: 1K
You sighed while looking at your silhouette in the looking glass. You had just gotten a new gown, dark red with lovely black embroidery details all long the bodice. It was a gown fit for the wife of the future king. Baelor was requested it himself, had apparently suggested a lowered neckline as well because you were a wife, not a maiden any longer. He wanted everybody to see the pretty wife he’d taken. The woman he loved. Those had been the exact words he’d used while people brought by countless swatches of fabric a moon ago to see which suited for complexion best.
You did not feel much like a woman at the moment. The corset was pulled as tight as the maids could get it and beyond what your ladies had thought needed, yet you still hated that figure that you saw.
“The prince Baelor.” A guard announced to one of your ladies at the door and the room was cleared quickly moments after he entered and you remained stood there before the looking glass.
“the color suits you,” he smiled approaching and your grimaced as you saw his hand reach out to touch your side.
“it look as though im playing dress up.”
He chuckled and kissed the tension in your jaw. “I suppose you are, we all are really for these sorts of things.” He kissed again, this time at your slightly exposed shoulder. “You look lovely regardless. I’m glad for this feats if only you get to see you like this.” He admitted. He did not see anything amiss with your appearance.
“I do not feel well.” You huffed and suddenly pulled your shoulder away from his lips. “I think it best that I do not attend.”
Baelor frowns and the back of his palm presses to your forhead. “You do not appear unwell?” His eyes search you for some reasoning for your discomfort.
“I do not wish to go.” You double down shoulders raising as your tension grew.
“My wife should be there with me, the woman who will help guide my hand as a rule this realm one day needs to be stood beside me.” The words were flattering, he wanted you to be known and respected, but the idea of being presented, especially when people were used to seeing Lady Jena, beautiful, kind, womanly Jena at his side. It made your stomach turn!
“they’ll think me a joke.” You muttered. That had baelor’s light lopsided smile falling. This was more than not wishing to attend a tiresome event.
“you will be queen.” He offered, “a fool would think you a joke.” He grabed your cheek making you look at him. “Tell me now, what plagues you?” His voice gave you no option other than honesty.
“I look childish.” You whispered, eyes hung down even though he kept your head up. “I-I cannot even fill out my own bodices, ones they’ve fit me for over and over again. You will present me and people will wonder where the woman you speak of is!”
Baelors eyes dropped to your chest. He thought you filled the fabric out well, you had teets, they were just…small. But he saw no issue with that.
“your breasts are not of the realms concern.” He said seriously, thumb stroking your cheek he leaned down some to kiss your head. “If this was not a style you were comfortable in I wish you would have told me.” He had suggested the styling, he had selfishly wanted to see her in it. But he knew how to bottle his own desires up, and he gladly would of done that had he known the distress this gown was causing you.
“Jena had large tits.” You sniffled. It sounded so silly being said outloud but part of you wanted him to know that you were struggling with not measuring yourself against his deceased wife. It was not simply her shape either, it was everything.
“Aye, she did.” He sighed coming behind you and putting you back infront to the looking glass. “But that is not why I cared for her.” He pointed out. Fingers pulling at the knots of your corset to loosen in. You would wear something that caused you less stress.
“but you enjoyed them?” You grumbled.
Baelor lowered his forehead to your shoulders. “I enjoy a woman’s body….yhe warmth, the smooth skin, the way a cunt flutters before reaching climax.” He kissed your neck. “I love how a woman’s breasts feel in my hands, how a nipple reacts to being licked.”
You were flushing deeply, especially as he worked your gown down to your feet and began to pull your chemise off. He did not comment on the bits of fabric you’d shiver under your small breasts to lift them more. His hands simply cupped at you. Both palms flat to your chest, fingers caging in the warm soft meat there and he left a mark on your shoulder.
“I’ve failed as a husband if you think I do not love this part of you.” He admitted. Thumb grazing over the buds and you leaned back against his stable chest just a bit. Eyes fluttering at the feeling.
“I love how sensitive they are.” He breathed feeling how your nipples got hard and poked up at his fingers. He adored how they got big and thick, he thought you knew how much he enjoyed them because half the time when you two laid together they were sucked into his mouth.
“y-you do?” Your voice trembled some and you melted against him, letting his body support yours as your head laid back against his shoulder eyes drifting up to his face as his stayed locked towards the mirror so he could see all of you.
“Seven save me,” he breathed two fingers pulling on your right nipple. “Yes, gods yes I love you..,,love them.” He bent to the side some, your arm slinging over his shoulders and his beard tickled against your tit as his warm, and long tongue, dragged itself against the peaked flesh. Lips sealing for a few moments and his eyes closed savoring the feeling and taste.
“I will make my love for every inch of you very, very clear moving forward my love.” He told you as his head pulled away and he shifted to stand between you and the mirror. “We shall go do as we must, and then I’d enjoy you laid in our bed with nothing hiding your pretty chest from me for quite a few hours.”He explained hand stroking your cheek again before planting a delicate and assuring kiss on your lips.
pairing(s): baelor “breakspear” targaryen x wife!reader
summary: You wear Baelor's shirt to bed. He is very normal about it.
words: 2.4k
cw: explicit, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, fingering, somnophilia, (mild), prone bone, headlock, biting, possessive behavior, reader called 'girl’, yearning, this is quite simply just baelor jumping our bones, i love arm, mildly edited, not beta read
a/n: this is not officially a sequel to my other baelor fic but it can be read like that since i characterized him the same. i rly just want that old man to fuck me in his shirt idk
ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI. I BLOCK AGELESS BLOGS.
Baelor has been standing at the foot of your bed for… much longer than he intended to. There's a tilt to his head, seventy-six degrees and counting, and a rise and fall to his chest that seems to be getting slightly faster with each passing exhale.
You do not see it. You are, as it is, asleep.
You're wearing his shirt. This is what has him still as stone, drawing his eyes over you in slow drags that he just can't seem to put an end to.
It's not an elaborate shirt. It's not even one of his best ones— the royal seamstresses have laden him with shirts of silk and fine woven cotton, embellished with hours of needlework or, in some horrifying cases, even beading. He has shirts of every color and shade, shirts of damask and velvet, shirts for summer and shirts for winter. Tunics from Dorne. Doublets from the Reach. Myrish robes. Qartheen samite vests.
You have chosen none of those. The one you have chosen is as simple a garment as he would choose on any given day, to wear against his skin beneath his doublet. White linen gauze, unembellished, unadorned. Its sleeves almost as billowing as its body, coming to plain rectangular cuffs. A simple collar, a sturdy yoke across the shoulders, double-stitched to keep it from unraveling. It is, in a word, efficient. Standard.
He knows, without having to ask you, that you chose to wear this shirt specifically because it is standard. Because it is one that he wears often. The cuffs have gone slightly soft with the wear, the neckline just a bit stretched along the bias. The felled seams are coming undone just a touch at the hem, a fact that he always sees but hasn't brought to the attention of his attendant, because it would mean a week of waiting to have it repaired. It is unfussy. But it is his.
And you are curled up in it like a kitten, asleep in his bed, your leg thrown over a pillow that you had moved toward his side of the bed in his absence. He has spent too long at his work, he knows. You spent too long waiting for him— long enough that you removed your nightgown and donned one of his shirts, and you fell asleep like that. Alone. In the bed you are meant to share with him.
Baelor feels a tightness in his chest that is ringed with fondness, an aching longing for you that hadn't stopped after your wedding, and doesn't seem like it will any time soon. He is too taken with you, too in love and consumed by it for that intrinsic sense of need for you to fade. It is a tender thing, tied around his heart in an intricate knot, with a tail that you hold the end of. You twirl it around your little finger and he buckles like a man who has never seen combat, who doesn't know what it is to stand his ground.
Baelor sighs as he undresses, but he keeps one eye on you all the while, as though you may disappear if he moves too far away. But you don't move. You don't even stir, when his belt hits the stone floor, or when his breeches follow. You are caught up in a world of dreams, unaware of what the sight of your sleeping form is doing to your husband, bringing him to the brink of something he has never quite been able to put a name to.
You do not stir when his hand presses into the mattress.
You do not stir when his weight dips the bedding and he moves slowly, purposefully, over you.
You do, however, stir just the smallest bit when his fingers dance over the curve of your hip through the fabric, feeling its drape over the soft plush of your skin. The meat of your ass, the swell of your thigh. Baelor feels, smoothing and caressing with a languid stroke that is not intended to rouse you, although he knows very well that it might and he does it anyway. Your fingers flex on the pillow that you clutch instead of him.
He finds himself, at that moment, inordinately envious of a pillow. A lump of fabric and feathers in your hands, between your thighs.
His hand grows bolder, a broad stroke over the small of your back, into the dip of your waist. You make a small noise in your throat, twitching the slightest bit as he passes over a particularly sensitive area.
"Shh, my sweet girl," Baelor whispers quietly, a lulling murmur in the darkness. Everything about you is soft— your skin, the fabric of his shirt as it lays over you, your hair, the expression on your face, the candle light on your sleeping body. It overwhelms him. It turns him into something that he's not normally, unless he is with you: a man. Not a Prince, and not the Hand of the King or heir to the throne. Not a warrior and not a subject of songs and poetry, myths and stories. With you, in this bed, he is simply a man in love with his wife, devoted beyond measure.
By the time his hand reaches your nape, your eyes are fluttering open the barest amount. Your face is still pressed slightly into the pillow, but you shift, a perking of your head as awareness returns to you. "Baelor?"
"It's me," he tells you, his voice low enough to not even constitute words.
"Mm. Waited for you," you mumble, confirming what he already knew.
His eyes crease at the corners, his smile overly tender. "I know. I'm here now."
Even as he says it, his hand is finding the hem of his shirt draped over your thigh, its frayed edge tickling against the smoothness of your skin. You hum quietly, dropping your eyelids against the feeling of his warm hand, burrowing between pillow and fabric and skin to find you, bare and wet and waiting for him.
"Oh," you sigh when his fingertip draws a slow circle around your clit.
"I know," he reassures you again, pressing a chaste, sweet kiss to the back of your neck. "I know, my love."
You turn your head further into the pillow beneath you, letting out a small whine at the feeling, your hips arching into his touch. He responds in kind, laying his weight flush to your back, his hand pinned between you and the pillow below.
"You're wearing my shirt," he remarks, his fingers finding your entrance and sliding in, stretching you open quick enough to make you keen softly. He gives you a few shallow strokes, feeling you grind back into the press of his cock against your tailbone. "My beautiful wife, wearing my clothes."
"W-Wanted to— to feel you— mm." Your voice is still slightly slurred with sleep, the heat of his body and the slowness of his movements doing nothing to rouse you more. You are still somewhere between awake and dreaming, pleasantly lulled, drowsy in your responses to him. Still, you moan at the curving of his fingers. "Wanted you… close to me…"
"Then let me be close," Baelor whispers, dragging the wilting fabric of his shirt up over your hips. He puffs a sigh through his nose, the ghost of it breezing against your neck. "What am I to do with you, hm?"
You make a pathetic noise when he moves your thighs apart to fit himself between them, his chest pressed to the curve of your spine, the thin fabric of his shirt separating you. He kisses you beneath the ear.
"You can sleep, darling," he tells you quietly, a whisper into your ear as his cock settles heavy between your thighs, the head sliding hotly against your cunt. Even though his voice is low, it booms through you like a thunderclap. "You need rest."
"I need you," you retort, but your own voice is far off, dipping towards the fogginess of sleep already.
Your eyes flutter shut, a gentle sigh of relief leaving you when he enters you slowly, stretching you open around him. Pressure on your back, pressure between your legs, pressure where his hand is pinned and lifting your hips from the front, angling them back towards him. Baelor's arm comes up to brace beside your head, and the scent of him surrounds you— the same scent that always drives you crazy, juniper and peppercorn, and something slightly like the salt of a raging sea.
You breathe in deep, exhale on a contented, fulfilled hum. Your entire world is Baelor, your mind and body consumed by him completely. His body spanning the length of you, bone to bone, naked skin to thin, ineffectual fabric.
You clench around him, and Baelor makes a noise as though you've punched him. So close to your ear, the headiness of it is echoed tenfold. Then he shifts his weight, dropping his hips ever-so-slightly, and then just grinds into you. His cock nestles into the deepest part of you and you groan, your mouth dropping open and face turning towards the breadth of his arm beside you.
"Baelor," you whimper, soft and broken, slurred from the recesses of sleep. Your hand finds his bicep, drawn taut from the muscle holding him up, keeping him from crushing you completely. Your fingers dig in, pull. A silent plea, a command that he follows like a dog on a leash.
Baelor fits his forearm under your head and lifts, letting you rest your chin there against the crook of his elbow, getting you into a loose headlock. Your hand wraps loosely around his upper arm, your body lax, letting him rut his hips shallowly into yours.
"My beautiful girl," he breathes into your ear, and you feel his teeth, bared with intent. His nose pressed to the shell, his beard scraping rough against your cheek. "My heart. My soul."
His arm tightens. Just a tad, but just enough. You mewl like a wounded animal, stretching your limbs so that he can move closer in, can fit his mouth to the curve of your throat, while he throbs somewhere deep in you that makes your head spin and your breath stick in your chest. His weight on you turns full, crushing, an all-over press that pins you flat to the bed, the pillow tucked beneath your stomach.
You are no longer asleep.
"Say it," he tells you, a primal rasp to his voice that wasn't there before. Low, smoky. A dragon. It's dragged from the pit of him, from some hell that lurks deep inside his body. His groan slinks down your spine and pools as raw energy right above where his cock hollows out and reaches the end of you. "Say that you're mine."
"M'yours," you murmur into his arm, breathing in the hot air that radiates from him. "Baelor. M-My heart. My soul—"
A guttural sound leaves you, your open mouth muffled by the bite you take of his bicep when he pulls his hips back and ruts into you hard, hard enough to shake the bed. Baelor's breath in your ear is shaky, stilted with the desperation of his movements, the purpose for which he collects himself.
"Gods above," he groans, his face turned into your neck just as yours is turned into his arm. With great effort, he loosens his hold on you. He presses an apologetic kiss to the curve of your shoulder. "I'm sorry. So sorry, my love."
You make a short noise, shake your head once. "Do it again."
Baelor does as you tell him. He pulls back slowly, letting his cock drag through your walls just before rushing back in with a jolt up the bed. Soft hair grinds against the plush of your ass, his mouth open and heaving with gasps against your shoulder, covered in the fabric of his shirt.
You can taste his need in the salt on his skin, beads of sweat forming in the crook of his elbow, fiery heat pressed flush to your back. "I need to— to wear your clothes more often."
"Yes." The word is hungry. It leaves no room for defiance. "You will."
The hand pinned between you and the pillow moves, snakes down to find your clit again. You are blinded with white light behind your eyelids, your breath gone still in your chest. Then, you pant like your air has no place to go, your hand tightening on his bicep, his arm tightening around your throat.
"Mm. There." The sound of his voice in your ear, while he fingers at your clit and his cock makes you so full that you can barely think, undoes you. Tremors take over your body, and you feel him smile as he continues to work at you. "That's what you get. I want you shaking."
"Baelor." You cum around him, with his full weight holding you down with nowhere to go. You are held hostage to it, to the slow, seductive movements of his hips, the lazy strokes of his finger against your clit.
"That's it. My good girl," Baelor purrs into your ear, and you sob as you clench around him. "My good, sweet, beautiful—"
He runs his tongue lightly across the nape of your neck and groans, ducking his head as he cums. His moans are muffled by his shirt on your back, his body curled over yours like fog. He presses his hips hard against yours, as though he can become a part of you if he gets close enough, deep enough.
"Oh, my love." His whisper falls upon your ears like a dream, like you may wake up and not remember it. But he's real, and he's there on top of you with his heart pounding against your back, and his fist in the fabric of his shirt, the one that started all of this.
He stays there for a breath, and then two. His hips are still flush to yours, but he's stopped moving, stopped the slow grind and the desperate, cloying attempt to get as far inside of you as he possibly could. He simply holds there, with his arm still around your throat, but not pressing in anymore. Just holding. Just cradling.
"I don't know if you noticed," Baelor says after a moment, his voice tremulous and padded by a wad of fabric between his teeth, at the nape of your neck. He releases it. "But I quite like it when you wear my clothes."
You huff a laugh, and press a kiss to the inside of his elbow. "If you do that every time, I may never get any sleep."
Baelor hums. "The chances are very slim, indeed."
Even so, you wear the same shirt the next night. And the one after that.
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summary: The night before your wedding, your betrothed tells you some bad news: your wedding night will happen with an audience.
words: 7.5k
cw: explicit, smut, handjobs, fluids, blood, spit, biting, knives, references to fem masturbation, suggested oral f receiving at the end, public sex, involuntary exhibitionism (they're being forced to do it), they're fabricating a cherry being popped lol, possessive behavior, marriage, bedding ceremony, massage, cuddling, mild hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, virgin!reader, semi switch!valarr, he's just a wife guy idk, and a FREAK, but respectful baelor raised him right, canon typical sexism, valyrian wedding ceremony mildly described but don't talk to me about inaccuracies, the small council can get fucked, not edited, not beta read, not proof read
a/n: do not @ me. I wrote this in one sitting after being plagued by visions for a whole week and didn't read it over. i just want to give the prettiest prince in westeros a handjob
ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI. I BLOCK AGELESS BLOGS.
On the night before your wedding, you sit on the end of your bed and try not to tremble with nerves. You should go to sleep. You know you should go to bed, but you can't. If you go to bed now, it means that the next time you open your eyes will be your wedding day, and you can't fathom that right now.
It's not so much that you don't want to marry Valarr. You don't mind the prospect of being his wife— he is handsome, kind, chivalrous, everything that you could hope for in a husband. The problem is that you don't know him well enough to be able to hold a conversation with him beyond base pleasantries, and in roughly twenty-four hours you will be expected to lay naked beneath him and let him claim you as a man does his wife. You don't know what to expect from him, in that regard. Will he be gentle, as he is when you normally speak to him? Will he be forceful? Harsh? Angry?
You close your eyes. The very idea of it threatens to set your stomach churning. You have been sitting on the end of your bed with your head in your hands for roughly an hour now, but your anxiety is only seeming to mount tenfold each time you turn it over in your head. What you will do tomorrow with a man you barely know. You barely have it in you to move. You feel as though, if you do, the walls will come crumbling down around you.
Perhaps it's for the best that a knock at your chamber door rouses you from this stasis, finally permitting you to straighten and clear your throat. "Enter."
"M'lady." One of your chamber maids enters, looking a bit piqued, but keeping her voice hushed. "Lord Valarr has sent for you."
"Valarr?" You glance around the room wildly. Beyond the whorls in the window panes, black night falls over the Red Keep. You expected that the entire castle would be asleep at this hour, as you should be. What could Valarr want with you now?
What indeed. Your mind trips over itself, your anxiety spiking again. But you stand, your back straight as an arrow, and you follow her out the chamber door. It would not do to keep your future husband waiting.
Your chamber maid takes you as far as the stairway to the prince's apartments, where a serving boy you have never seen before meets you. The two eye each other meaningfully, and then your chamber maid abandons you quite unceremoniously, making your skin crawl beneath your dressing gown. You open your mouth to protest, but the serving boy looks at you apologetically and holds a single finger to his lips.
"All is well," he whispers, when you snap your mouth shut, looking mildly insulted. "Follow me, m'lady."
You follow the boy to the door of the prince's apartments, where he leaves you with a nod of his head. You do not dismiss him before he leaves— at this point, you surmise that he is following orders already given by someone whose authority outranks you. You steel yourself, fighting not to grind your teeth as you knock on the chamber door.
There is a quiet word from within bidding you entry, and you push open the door as quietly as possible. You are standing in what appears to be Valarr's study, surrounded by books of all size and description, stacked neatly in rows on floor to ceiling shelves. You cast your gaze around at the Myrish carpets, chaise longues and chairs, candles and other opulent comforts afforded a prince of House Targaryen, and you feel slightly out of your depth.
And then your eyes fall on him. The prince, in his shirtsleeves and breeches, sitting almost dejectedly on the couch by the fireplace. Either he or one of his servants had taken the liberty of building a small fire, enough to cast an amber glow throughout the room without overheating the chamber. The orange light catches on the strands of silver in Valarr's dark hair, making him appear as though fire dances along the edges of his being.
You stand with your back to the chamber door. You wait.
It takes your betrothed several moments to lift his eyes to you, and his face is drawn with a perplexing amount of stress. You wouldn't have imagined that he would have anything to worry about; as far as you know, he has not been opposed to your union in any way. But the longer he looks at you as though he carries all the weight of the heavens and the earth on his shoulders, doubts begin to creep in.
"I apologize for the secrecy, my lady," Valarr finally says quietly, his fingers twitching against the edge of the seat that he grips. "I hope I did not wake you."
"No, my lord." You are still standing, stalk-still in front of the chamber door, wondering what exactly this visit is about.
"I felt it necessary to be discreet," Valarr continues, as though he must explain himself to you. It's more than any other lord has ever done for you, when it comes to ordering you about, and it takes you slightly aback. "Talk runs rampant in the Keep. I wouldn't want there to be cause for gossip so near to our wedding day. You understand?"
"I— yes, I understand that. But, my lord," your eyes flit from him, to the fire, and back, "If you… wish to bed me, could it not wait until we are wed?"
That startles him. Valarr lifts his head, blinking up at you with a painfully concerned look on his face. "Oh— no, my lady, this is not…" He licks his lips, and looks to the fire again. "Ah. I fear there has been a misunderstanding. I did not call you here for that, on my honor. Forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive." You tilt your head, watching as his pulse jumps against his throat. "I— please, do not think me insolent, but… why have you called me here tonight, if not for that?"
Valarr closes his eyes. You take a moment to admire his profile. The warm glow of the fire makes his skin look all the more ethereal, flushed and freckled as it is. Valarr is beautiful in a way that bards should write songs about— have written songs about, in ages past. It nearly pains you to see that beauty so laden with trouble.
"Would you like some wine?" He blurts the question like it supersedes something worse, something that he doesn't quite know how to approach yet. He seems to be weighing it in his mind as he stands and crosses to a table set with a decanter and two goblets, without waiting for an answer from you. You do not fail to notice that his hands are shaking.
"My lord."
You watch his back, tight with tension beneath the soft linen of his shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbows in a rakish and informal way, as though he hadn't truly been meaning to have an audience tonight. He does not turn to look at you, just pours the wine like he hasn't heard you.
You take three steps toward him, and tentatively reach out to place a hand on his upper arm. "Valarr."
Valarr freezes. His head bowed, he holds the wine decanter aloft like it's a shield, a solid wall between him and whatever it is that's weighing so heavily on his mind. As though, if he draws out the night long enough, he may not have to put words to whatever it is that's bothering him.
But then the moment passes, and Valarr takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm sorry, my lady." His voice is so quiet, as to barely be heard over the crackling of the fire. The words practically break in his throat. "I'm so sorry."
"For what?" you ply gently, trying not to startle him. You feel as though you are approaching a cornered animal, with how tightly wound he is. Slowly, you stroke the flat of your hand down his bicep, trying to give him a reassuring touch without overstepping. You fear, perhaps, that you might be, but Valarr does not pull away.
Instead, he simply picks up a goblet of wine and offers it to you. You look at it for a moment dumbly— it is an ornate piece, carved with dragons and inlaid with red jewels that glitter in the firelight. For lack of an alternative, you take the wine from him without a word.
"I—" he starts, then stops again, like he is still weighing the words in his head, trying to find the right ones to convey his particular issue.
The longer he takes to say what's on his mind, the more your own starts to come up with things to fill that void. He has a secret wife already. He is stricken with some disease he procured in a brothel. You are not what he wants. All of these thoughts and more flit through your head, and all seem to ring the very same at the end. He wants to call off the wedding.
But then he takes another deep breath, and he turns to you, though his eyes are still downcast. "Tomorrow. When we— The wedding. It's… there will be a ceremony."
You blink. "Yes, your grace. That happens at weddings. So I'm told."
"No." Valarr shuts his eyes, turns away like he's chastising himself. "After. The—" He pinches the bridge of his nose, the wine in his own goblet threatening to slosh over the rim. "When we are wed, and we… when I take you to our bed. There will be a ceremony. A bedding ceremony."
The words tumble from his mouth and land with a splat on the carpet like some viscous, globular thing. Bedding ceremony. It conjures an image in your head of leering heads watching you from behind sheer curtains, pompous men making comments, taking notes. Bedding ceremony. Humiliation, degradation. A crowd of spectators to observe you in your most intimate and private moments.
You say nothing. Like him, you struggle to find the words to say to describe what you feel at the prospect. But now that Valarr has gotten the point of contension out in the open, he seems to be unable to stop talking. You watch him pace around the floor of his study, like a man on the eve of battle.
"I only learned of it today. It's not customary. But because I am second in line for the throne, the small council wants proof of legitimacy, that the marriage will not be annulled. That you will bear me an heir. As though we are incapable of doing anything for ourselves." He shakes his head, scoffing with an incredulous, irritated smirk. "I begged them to tell you, my lady, I truly did, but they would not have it. They intended for you to simply walk into it, unaware. I believe they fear you will abscond in the night, or some such nonsense. My father was against it, as I knew he would be, but the rest of the council would not be swayed."
"Does your father… does he know that you've told me? About the ceremony?"
"He encouraged me to." Valarr's hand finds his hair and rucks it up into a mess, his cheeks pink in the firelight. "We were in agreement. If there's going to be an audience, you should be told. What you do in response is for you to decide."
You turn your eyes down to the wine quivering in your cup. The thought of an entire council of men conferring about what goes on in your marriage bed without your knowledge sends a finger of disgust clawing up your back.
"I called you here tonight because I wanted you to know. I wanted to tell you myself, without any eyes and ears on us. I do not wish to begin our marriage with any kind of deception."
He stops pacing, finally, and takes a step towards you. You lift your gaze to his— his mismatched eyes, one brown, one violet. The eyes of his father. You stare at them and find yourself wondering if your children would have them, as well. A mark of their father's beauty.
"I will always be true to you," Valarr says softly, though his face holds a certain amount of frantic desperation that makes you nervous for him. "I will always be honest, and frank with you when needs be. I never intend to be anything less. Do you understand? Let us be frank. Please."
"Frank. Yes," you echo, reaching out toward him. His eyes flutter when your hand finds his cheek, and you stroke your thumb against the point of his cheekbone. "Valarr. Please calm down. You have nothing to fear from me."
"I—" He swallows, his eyes flicking over your face like he's trying to map it out in his mind. "I know." He nods, seeming to let your words sink in slowly. "I know."
"Good. Drink your wine." You sound more sure of yourself than you feel.
Valarr follows your instructions in earnest, chugging the contents of his cup without a second thought. You do the same, although slower, the dry red wine hitting your soft palate with a sharp tang. You sink onto the couch and, without pretense, pull your knees up to your chest, your feet curled against the cushion beneath you. It's a protective posture, meant to calm you, but all it does is make you feel small in comparison to him when he sits heavily beside you, his elbows on his spread thighs.
"They only want proof of consummation," he adds after a moment of silence, still swallowing back the remnants of his wine as it brings a rush of saliva to his mouth. "If… when you bleed, if it stains the sheets, perhaps then I could convince them that it isn't necessary to sit in—"
"I won't bleed."
Valarr stops talking. When he turns his head to look at you, you hide your face in the folds of your robe against your knees, your eyes closed against the blackness. Your heart pounds in your chest for fear of what he might say.
But, true to character, Valarr is gentle in his response. "Forgive me, my lady. I thought that you were…"
"A virgin?" Your voice is muffled by your robe. "Yes, and you'd be correct. I've never lain with another person. But hands and fingers can do enough damage, my lord. And… various other implements."
"Oh. Oh, yes. I see." There is nothing for a few seconds but the crackle of the fire and its heat on your back. "Well, I… I suppose that it— it's a good thing. I do not wish to cause you any discomfort on our wedding night."
The sentiment brings tears to your eyes. They bubble up out of nowhere, and you feel them leak out without warning, dampening the fabric pressed to your eyelids. You let out a quiet little sob, without even meaning to. "Why are you so good to me?"
You feel him shift. His knee knocks against your ankle as he turns to look at you, and a warm hand settles on your arm. "Well, it's the only way you should be treated. Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because—" You're crying. It is not a soft, dignified weeping. It's ugly. It shakes your body and leaves you with wracking sobs that come from a place deep down inside you, where you had pushed all of your anxiety and reservations and fears, about your future husband and your wedding, and everything that's to come after. The tears come so suddenly and in such force that you can't rein it in, and you find yourself unable to say anything but, "Because."
"No," Valarr replies, and his hand slides around your back. "Not me. Never to you. Come— oh, come here, love."
He manages to get your limbs untangled and pulls you to him, your legs slung over his lap and your head hidden in his neck. You're thankful for it; you don't really want him to see what you look like, crying yourself snotty the day before your wedding. His hand pets idly against your thigh, and it occurs to you that this position is more intimate than you've ever been with anybody, including your husband-to-be. It's the first time he's held you. The first time anyone has, since you were a babe in your mother's arms. You sober quickly against his shoulder, clutching at him like a child clutches their favorite toy.
"I thought you wanted to call the wedding off," you admit to him. "When I came in and you— you wouldn't look at me. I thought you didn't want me."
Valarr tuts, holding you closer. "I'm sorry. I never intended to raise any doubt in your mind. You needn't ever worry if your husband wants you, darling. I do. Gods above, I do. You have me utterly beguiled." Then, he asks you tenderly, "Have I not told you that I am more than happy to marry you? I suppose I haven't had a chance, have I? Too many people around all the time."
And that thought brings you back to the issue at hand. "I can't— Valarr, I can't do it. Not with them watching. Listening." A shudder runs through you at the thought. And then, your temper flares. Who do these men think they are, to play you and your husband for fools this way? "I won't."
Valarr's hand goes still. "My dear—"
"When I fuck you, my pleasure will be for your eyes and your ears, alone." You lift your head, gripping the open collar of his shirt in a fist strong enough to tear the fabric, if you were to pull it. Your eyes are still vaguely watery, and you're sure that you don't look as fierce as you want to, but at the very least, you know you look adamant. "I will not have these old men partake in something I give only to you, just because they feel like it. I refuse to give them that satisfaction. It is not theirs. Do you understand?"
"Yes. I understand completely." Valarr gazes at you, an unreadable expression on his face as his hand coming up to stroke a lock of hair away from your brow. He fixates on your lips for a few seconds before saying, "When I fuck you, I will not have anyone else witness what I do to you. That is for only you and I to know. What you do to me, however… I suppose that could be up for negotiation. I'll never let it be said that I am not pleased by you."
He winks, and in spite of everything weighing on you, you giggle. Then he smiles, and it's the loveliest thing that you've seen all night.
You brush your nose against his. "We are alone, now."
"Yes, we are." His voice has dropped low, to reflect your proximity to his lips.
"I don't suppose there's a chance that we could just…" You drag one finger across his exposed skin, where the collar of his shirt hangs open. "Do it now?"
Valarr sucks in a rueful breath, tilting his head back and away from you. It exposes the length of his throat for your wandering eye, and you suddenly have a great urge to sink your teeth into something. "I'm afraid honor demands that I don't take advantage just yet."
"Honor," you grumble, resting your fingers just at the hollow of his throat. "Is it honorable, what they're doing to us?"
"No, it isn't." His head tilted back against the backrest of the couch, he peers down his nose at you. "Even so. I mustn't. Not until we're man and wife." He sighs. "Even though I really, really want to."
You make a short, perturbed sound. "You're so…"
"What?"
"Decent."
Valarr lets out a laugh, his hand coming up to smooth over the back of your head. "You say that as though it's a bad thing."
"In this instance, I rather think it is." You fall silent for a few seconds, tracing your finger through the smattering of hair exposed on his chest. "It doesn't matter," you say suddenly, "whether there's an audience. I doubt you'll be able to change their minds now, and they'll still want proof. There will be questions when there is no blood. Oh gods, Valarr—"
"Shh. There's plenty we can do. We'll think of something."
"Like what?"
Valarr is quiet, but his hand moves. He catches your wrist, stopping you where you draw idle patterns against his chest with your finger. Without a word, he lifts your hand so that it catches the light, his thumb brushing upwards to flex your fingers back as he examines them, scrutinizing the length of your fingers like they are the most interesting and complex things he's ever seen.
"I may have an idea," he says softly, and then presses a kiss to the center of your palm.
The wedding is a joyous affair, which is only to be expected from a royal celebration. The vows are in High Valyrian, which you don't understand but which you repeat to the best of your ability. As per the custom of House Targaryen, your lips are cut and your foreheads smudged with blood. Your hands, sliced and bound together to let your blood become one. The wine you sip and share with Valarr stings the cut on your lip, but the smile he gives you before he kisses you makes it worthwhile.
There is a feast of wild boar and venison, and various other intricate dishes which you're sure the cooks in the kitchens labored over for days, but which you barely even register. Your stomach is too busy turning at the prospect of what happens after the feast, and what you and Valarr had spoken of the night before.
Beneath the high table, Valarr's hand finds your knee. Through the fine silk of your gown, you feel the warmth and weight of his hand, and it's one of the only things that can ground you to reality, to the here and now. When you look up at him, your husband— not your betrothed, your husband, now— gives you a knowing look and a coy smile that makes your blood sing in your veins.
And then, all too soon, it's over. The music, the merriment, the laughter. You are herded away by your ladies' maids to the prince's apartments, and you're ushered through a door you have not passed through the night before.
The prince's bedchamber is just as opulent as his study, with heavy wooden furniture carved in ornate fashion, tapestries and heavy curtains around the bed. When your eyes fall on them, you tangibly relax. There are no sheer drapes, nothing to suggest that you will be seen in the bed with your husband.
As you are undressed and wrapped in linen and brocade, an embellished robe draped over your shoulders to protect your modesty. You have yet to be told by anyone— servants or otherwise— that there will be a bedding ceremony. The fact sends a rage boiling inside you; if your husband were not as honorable as he is, if he had not taken the chance to secrete you away in the middle of the night and speak to you as an equal, you would have absolutely no idea of what is to come. You have half a mind to reprimand all of your ladies' maids for being a part of it.
But then Valarr enters the room, and the mere sight of him, dressed down in his own shirt and robe, makes the swelling rage within you quiet. He reaches for you, takes the hand that is bandaged from your vows, and presses a kiss over the cloth, his breath fanning across your pulse.
It does enough to keep you from screaming when a majority of the small council files into the room. Prince Baelor is notably absent— but, then again, Valarr told you to expect as much. You don't imagine that Valarr's father would want to sit in on his son's bedding ceremony.
Then— and only then— is the truth of the matter explained to you. That the small council will remain in the room to ensure that, "things are well in hand." You have to stifle a snort at that, and Valarr's own hand tightens slightly where he holds yours. You keep your eyes on your husband, refusing to look at the councilmen who have so grievously tried to humiliate you.
You are fussed over, annointed with holy oils and prayed over, beseeching the gods to bless your union with many children. It's the use of the word many that makes Valarr's own resolve threaten to crack, a small smirk curving the edge of his lips.
In the blink of an eye, you are shut in with Valarr on the bed, the curtains drawn, and the light blocked out. You swallow hard, sitting still in the dark for only a second before you're moving, reaching across the sheets in search of your husband, in search of his warm touch and comforting presence. You find his knee, and follow it upwards, over the expanse of his thigh to his hip as you bring yourself towards him.
His arms come around you, and then you're being pulled, his chest flush to yours, his hand finding your ass and lifting you to seat you on his lap. You gasp, your hands blindly fumbling in the dark for something to hold onto, and you find his hair. Soft as silk and threading through your fingers, you tighten your hold on it hard enough that he lets out a soft groan in response.
"Relax," Valarr whispers, just loud enough for you to hear, and his lips find your jaw. As you settle onto his lap, his fingers draw your robe and the neckline of your chemise to the side, exposing your shoulder to the air. He presses another kiss there, soft against the newly bared skin, and he repeats, "Relax."
"Can't see shit," you mutter angrily, and he snorts. You feel his smile against your skin, his breath fluttering in soft bursts across your shoulder.
Valarr reaches back, feeling for something over his head in the dark. He finds it, and there is a whisper of something, a spark. A candle is lit in the darkness, suddenly illuminating the enclosed space with dim light, just enough for you to be able to see him and the expanse of the bed sheets, the dark wood of the headboard.
The candle flame creates a halo around his head, painting his hair slightly golden. Your hands find his face, trace along his jaw and thumbs finding the pulse point under his chin. "My beautiful Prince," you whisper to him, watching his pupils widen just slightly before you finally dip to kiss him.
His lips taste of blood and wine, the cut on his lower lip still raw from the wedding ceremony. Your teeth latch around his lower lip and give it a tug, and he gasps sharply, his arms tightening around you. You smile, remembering his words from the night before, as he told you his ingenius plan for how to trick your unwitting audience.
They will be listening for anything that suggests we're doing what we should. Gasps, moans, the creak of the bed. They can only draw their conclusions from that, and what we leave on the bed sheets.
Valarr reaches behind him again, this time down between the mattress and the headboard. He searches for something, his brow drawing and lips pursed in frustration for a moment, before he grips something and pulls it out from where the sheet tucks beneath the mattress.
A knife, small and discreet enough to be slipped into a pocket or a boot, but made of valyrian steel. The edge of it, so sharp that it practically whispers on the air, glints ominously in the candlelight.
You will already have a cut on your hand from the wedding ceremony. They won't be surprised to find it in the morning.
Valarr kisses your forehead, just above the smudge of blood he'd painted between your brows with his thumb during your vows. Then, he lifts your bandaged hand, and begins unwrapping it with the care of someone unpackaging the most delicate work of art they've ever held.
Your nose scrunches as the bandage is peeled away from the cut on your palm, stuck to it with clotted blood. The wound is not deep, but fresh— the gash wells with little beads of blood already, but not enough for what you intend to do.
Valarr lifts the knife with one hand, cradling your own hand with the other. He peers up at you from beneath his lashes, his eyes apprehensive as he waits for your permission.
You nod, and Valarr slices the cut open with one small flick of the blade. The sound you make is loud, and slightly obscene— a visceral reaction, one that you did not intend to make, but which sounds quite like something your audience would expect from your wedding bed.
Beyond the curtains, someone audibly clears their throat. You look at Valarr and roll your eyes, making him bite back a snicker.
The blood needs to be in a reasonable spot on the sheets for it to look believable. You must put it where your hips meet mine. If it gets on your clothes, even better.
While he cradles your bleeding hand, you ruck your nightgown and robe up your thighs. The cut is shallow enough that the blood is already beginning to slow, but there is enough for you to smear it against your cunt, and then wipe it directly onto the bed sheets below you. The result is a blotch of pinkish blood, mixed with your own arousal, on the white linen.
When you meet Valarr's gaze, he nods at you in approval. Then, he takes your hand, and lifts your bleeding palm to his lips.
This was not something you had spoken about. This, you imagine, is something that he does purely for himself. His tongue flicks out and drags the length of the cut on your hand, mopping up blood and arousal alike. His eyes on you the whole time, dark in the dimly lit canopy of his bed, he makes a noise in his throat like he's found relief after a long period of torment.
A deep burning want coils in your core, willing you to do something insane and unscrupulous. You have the urge to resent him for it, and for not letting you fuck him on the couch in his study last night, while he told you what to do. When it was just you, and him, and the crackle of the fire as your witness.
After that, we need only sound convincing. You may do anything you want to me, and I will try to make my performance believable. Whatever you do, I shall bear it happily.
You want to make him regret that. You want to make him regret looking at you as he licks your blood and your arousal from your hand, as he moans like a whore about it, as he bats his mismatched eyes and kisses the cut on your skin before rewrapping it like you are the greatest gift he has ever received. You want to crack him open and spill his contents all over the bed sheets for them to find in the morning, and know that you did.
There are noises beyond the shield of the opaque curtains that remind you of just who is on the other side, listening to everything that you do. It bothers you, enough that you feel the cold fingers of dread tightening around your throat. But you cannot allow it to stop you when you've come so far already.
So, you kiss Valarr deeply, capturing the taste of your blood on his tongue and swallowing his moan as it bubbles up out of his chest. He catches you with his hands on your hips as you lift yourself over him, planting your knees on the mattress. You reach down and unravel the tie of his robe, allowing it to fall open and off of his shoulders, leaving him in naught but his linen shirt.
You may do anything you want to me. He has no idea of the things you want to do to him. He cannot possibly fathom how vicious your desire for him is— it's an all-consuming thing, and the only way you'll be able to survive it is if you just give in to your urges.
As you slide his linen shirt up his torso, you slide your lips along his jaw, sucking once against the curve just below his ear. He gives a startled gasp and a small jerk of his hips, which you think was unplanned. You don't think he intended it, because he shudders just a bit when you smile and scrape your teeth along his throat.
You pull back to help him out of his shirt, letting it fall to the mattress beside you. He gazes up at you, wide-eyed in the candlelight, entirely naked beneath you. His cheeks flushed, the V drawn in blood between his brows looks darker than it should. You place your hands on either side of his head and bend down to lave your tongue across the mark, tasting his blood the way that he did, yours.
Valarr's mouth drops open on a silent moan. His fingers tighten against your hips, the flush from his cheeks reaching down across his freckled shoulders and chest. You drag your hands down his chest, lowering them down towards where his cock rests heavily against his navel, hard and leaking. His core muscles tighten beneath your touch, his breath falling from his parted lips in a stuttered rhythm.
And then, you stop. Just short of touching his cock, you pull your hands away and lift yourself from his lap. His hands tighten once— just once, just enough for you to know that he wants you to stay, to keep going. But you do not yield, and he doesn't argue. Just releases your hips with a soft sigh through his nose, mildly disappointed at the distance.
But your hands keep feeling him. That's the thing that seems to vex him the most. You start again at his shoulders, your palm running flat across his pectorals and over to the other shoulder as you shift, rocking onto your knees beside him. You can see the questions spinning around in his head, the look of what are you doing etched on his face like words on a page. He turns his head, following you with his eyes as you move, until you swing your leg around his body from behind and sit against the pillows behind him.
Valarr's breath audibly hitches, and his head snaps forward. Your legs bracket his hips, your pelvis nearly crushed up against his lower back. You rest against the headboard of the bed and smooth your hand over his shoulder, down between his shoulder blades, and begin to trace around the vertebrae of his spine with your thumbs.
"Oh." The word leaves him on an exhale, and he hangs his head. You trace your way down his spine, applying gentle pressure and watching goosebumps raise on his skin. When you reach the bottom of his ribs, you begin tracing your way back up and watch a full body shudder roll through him.
You reach his neck and wrap both hands over his shoulders, digging your thumbs into his trapezius muscles. As you drag downwards, Valarr lets out a moan that makes you both freeze at how loud it is.
You drag your knuckles lightly up and down his back, and lean forward to press a kiss just below his ear. "When was the last time anyone rubbed your back like this, husband?"
"Never." The word is slightly more than a breath in your direction as he turns his head, but you hear it. He looks practically sun burnt with how red his face is.
"Hmm. No more." You pepper him with kisses across his shoulders, massaging your way down his back again and pressing into knots as you go. You aren't surprised to find him so tense— he is a knight, a soldier by station and a Prince of the Realm. He has more than enough reasons to be wound tight, and so you spend a decent amount of time working it out of him, bit by bit, until he nearly sags back against you.
Once you're sure that you've disarmed him enough, you slide your hands slowly around his waist to hug him from behind, pulling him back against you. He goes willingly, but turns his head to look at you questioningly, as though he's still trying to figure out what your plan is. You merely smile at him, press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and begin running your palms across his chest, down toward his stomach.
He grumbles a low sound, his jaw clenched tight and his brow drawn as he watches your hand sweep low, and lower still, until you're nearly an inch away from his cock. His legs twitch, and his hand moves as though he means to grab your wrist, to stop you or urge you on.
You lift one hand, moving your arm around his shoulder to cradle his jaw in your palm and turn his head towards you. Valarr's eyes find yours, and— he's desperate. You shake your head at him, your nose nearly bumping his as you move, telling him not to fight you. But his brow is drawn in consternation, his pulse jumping beneath your hand like pure adrenaline is pumping through his veins, just from the touch of your hand against his core.
"Let me," you whisper to him. You trace your finger back and forth, feeling his chest leap with his breath the longer you hover there. But you wait, until he gives you the smallest nod of assent, and then you're on him.
You wrap your hand around his cock, your thumb immediately brushing over the flushed tip. He jerks in your grip, a moan breaking in his throat at the contact. He's hot to the touch, hard and growing harder as you flex your fist and stroke him once.
Valarr makes a rough sound in his throat and takes your hand, momentarily stopping your movements. He lifts your hand in his, just to bring it to his mouth and drag the wet swath of his tongue over it. He gets you dripping with his spit, taking his time with it, until you find yourself grinding up against his back just from the feeling of his tongue on your hand and the wetness dripping between your fingers.
And then he moves your hand back down to his cock, and he wraps his hand around with yours, guiding you where he wants you. He uses a firm grasp, harder than you would have given to him on your own— but you like watching him squirm, and he seems more intent to do things quickly and efficiently.
Which, perhaps, is a good idea in this scenario. But you make a mental note to spend some time in another instance, another night, taking him to pieces, and taking your time doing it.
"Make it believable," you whisper against his skin, following the pace that he sets in earnest.
Valarr chuckles hoarsely, an airy thing that barely even meets your ears. "Anything for you," he breathes as he fucks his hips up into your joined fists with a quiet growl.
You press an open-mouthed kiss to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, as his tendons strain and his chest leaps with his breath. You let your tongue dance over his skin, salty with sweat and warm from the heat of the enclosed space and the exertion you're putting him through.
He moves your hand up and down in time with his, tightening your grip around him harshly each time you reach his leaking tip. The feeling of his cock sliding through your fist sets your body alight in a way that you can barely fathom. You turn your face into his neck, fitting your teeth around his skin to muffle the quiet moans that threaten to spill out of your mouth. You told him that they were for his ears only, and you meant it.
But one does escape. Quiet, and soft, and probably too low to make it past the curtains and to your audience. It vibrates against his skin, falls upon his ears like a sigh.
"Seven fuck—" Valarr's his snap violently up into your hand, making the bed shake, the wood creak with the strength of it. "Fuck. Fuck."
"Cum for me," you say quietly, directly into his ear. His breath hitches, a startled noise leaving him at the sound of your voice. "Valarr. Cum."
It takes him two more strokes. Warmth coats your joined hands, and he cums with a strangled moan that he half-swallows as he turns his face toward you, seeking out your lips. You cradle his face with your free hand, taking to him with an open mouth and a gracious tongue.
You've never felt so needy in your life. His hand still holding yours on his cock, his tongue in your mouth, you have to remind yourself why you aren't going to fuck him tonight. Why this is all that will happen on your wedding night— or, at least, until the audience leaves and your husband has a moment to collect himself.
You let Valarr lift your joined hands, covered in his spend, and you meet his eye as you both lick the evidence of what you've done from your hands. Between your fingers, your tongues meet in a depraved, possessive dance. Then, he lifts the bed sheet roughly and wipes his stomach with it, letting his cum stain the linen.
He collapses back against your chest, heaving a sigh that you feel resonate in your body. He closes his eyes briefly, and then opens them again, before he says aloud, "It is done. Begone."
You listen to the scraping of chairs, footsteps, low voices as the witnesses leave the room one by one. You think you hear a septon say a final prayer at the foot of the bed, which then makes you have to bite down on Valarr's shoulder to stop from laughing. Which then makes Valarr moan in the midst of the prayer, and you hear the prayer stop abruptly, and you have to struggle twice as hard to silence your laughter.
By the time the chamber door shuts with a resounding bang, Valarr is laughing, too.
After a moment, he squeezes your thigh and disentangles himself, crawling on all fours to the end of the bed. You watch from your seat, unabashedly, as he pokes his head out of the curtains to look around the room and confirm that no one remains. You admire his backside, his ass, the firmness of his thighs and the strong muscles of his back that you still intend to knead and push until you've heard every sound of relief that you can possibly steal from between his lips.
Valarr ducks his head back inside of the canopy. "The knife?"
You feel around awkwardly in the sheets until your fingers brush the hilt of the knife, and you hand it to him by the blade. He takes it gingerly, careful not to cut you, and leans out to tuck the knife under the cushion of a nearby chair.
"Servants are nosy, but they won't be looking there in the morning," he says with an easy smile as he straightens himself, and then turns to you. His face screws up as he looks at you, arranging the pillows and turning back the bed sheets. "What are you doing?"
"I'm… going to bed?"
"No." Valarr shakes his head, beginning to crawl up the mattress towards your seated form. "No no no. You will do no such thing, dear wife. Not after that."
"Wh— Valarr." You yelp when he grabs you by the ankle, yanking you down the bed towards him.
"We are quite alone, now. And you've tasted me," he murmurs as he guides your robe and your nightgown up your legs. He kisses the inside of your thigh and breathes a small sigh against your skin. "So now it's my turn."
content warning: nsfw. prostate milking. bodily fluids used as lubrication. jealousy. prince x crossdressing sworn knight relationship. manhandling. implied loss of virginity. hand-job. mention of pegging. dubious consent.
“What makes you believe he is interested in me?”
“The way he stares at you.” Baelor answers as a hand ascends to flatten the hair behind his head down–a habit he often did when he was upset but could not outright say what it was that was upsetting him.
“And if I were to return his affections?” you ask in retaliation, a brow rising when you catch the falter in his gaze and the clenching of one of his hands before he’s able to shield it behind his back.
He retorts, “You have your sworn oath to abide by.” and spins one of the rings adorning his fingers.
“That is true,” the corner of your mouth curls the tiniest bit at his visceral display of jealousy, “it is most fortunate, then, that he prefers the company of men over women.”
Baelor’s eyes widen, body relaxing almost immediately as the wisps of envy unclasp their claws from his heart.
“And, how do you know this?"
With a casual shrug, you confess that you had seen him with a stable boy several months ago, adding, “It was quite the show.” afterwards.
A startled “Oh,” is all the older man is capable of uttering at your vulgar confession, the laid-back manner in which you relayed it to him both jarring and arousing.
“I may be a lady by birth, but I am also a knight by oath and choice,” you explain for the nth time, removing the vambrace that had shielded your forearms from countless attacks earlier that afternoon, “I’ve heard, as well as seen, many things, your grace.”
The admission holds a suffocating weight to it.
“Have you partaken in such activities?” Baelor asks after a pause.
“Of course not,” you reply with a shudder, evidently offended, “I prefer to release pent up energy in the arena.”
“Ah,” he hums, pleased.
You turn to watch his face as you continue to remove your armour, “Have you ever..”
“No, but I have witnessed it.”
His honesty catches you by surprise, halting your movements, “Recently?” you sound far too excited.
Baelor gives a slight shake of his head, “It was during the Blackfyre rebellion,” he moves to take a seat on the bench behind him, “a walk through the woods to clear my head offered more than what I was hoping to find.”
Treading closer, your fingers curl below his bristly chin to study his face, “Did you enjoy it?”
“Not particularly, no,” he answers truthfully, a furrowing of his brows gives you reason to suspect he is replaying the moment.
“What if,” you step closer, until the steel strapped around your knees hits the inner part of his thighs, “it was you and I in those woods?”
Baelor’s breath hitches, the immediate expansion of his pupils a clear indication that he liked that imagery quite a bit.
“You,” your fingers slide into the hair around his nape, “on your hands and knees,” a harsh tug elicits a low groan from the older man, “and I,” his eyelids close when your nails scrape over his scalp, “mounting you.”
His eyes shoot wide open, a sharp “What?” reverberating within the space.
“I would prepare you, your grace,” you assure softly, thumbs moving to caress the lines framing his alarmed stare, “I would enter you slowly.”
His cheeks burn beneath your touch when you move the knee pressing into him upwards, continuing until it’s dragging over the tented centre of his breeches.
“You would sodomize your future king?” his voice is velvety–every exhale that leaves his parted lips uneven.
“Happily, your grace.”
Baelor was purposely riling you up.
He let her touch him, let her hand rest atop his for a beat longer than he should have, smiled at her warmly when she whispered in his ear.
Since you could not ask for his favour, you ride up to their seated forms and ask for hers. With a sweet smile and red, blotchy cheeks, she happily ties her cloth around your lance before returning to his side to watch the tournament begin.
You catch his gaze in the slit of your visor–the playful glint and curvature of his mouth was all you needed to see to know he was thoroughly enjoying the fact that you were seething with jealousy and there was nothing, at this current moment, you could do to ease it.
Unsurprisingly, you are unhorsed almost immediately, causing a roar from spectators that was equal amounts outrage and elation.
You return to your tent with a limp and, less than a beat later, Baelor is stepping inside after you with hands clasped behind his back and an expression of genuine concern on his face.
With an evident desire of inflicting pain on the older man, you push him down into the dirt, ignoring the pain that shoots up your knees when you straddle him.
“Did you enjoy that, my prince?” your words sound slurred behind the helm.
A low groan leaves his chest when you tug open his breeches; your knees move to dig into his splayed palms so that he is unable to reciprocate your touches. With gauntlet-covered hands, you remove his dusky, twitching cock out of its confines and begin to pull the half-hardened flesh with tight, rough tugs.
From the opening of your helm, you see a clear fluid beading at the tip before it drips down the side of his girth, following the pulsating, thick vein that runs down the length of it.
Before he is able to reach completion, you stop and rise to remove the codpiece as well as the thick, woolen breeches that obscure your smallclothes from his eyes.
Baelor’s mouth falls open when you use a dagger to cut through the last remaining layer and, without a lick of preparation, align the entrance of your core with the fat head of his cock and slide down to the hilt. The sound he releases is choked and guttural; a stifled cluster of pleas leave his lips when your tight walls pull him further inside of you.
“Mm,” you’re wincing, hands tightening in the wrinkled fabrics of his clothes.
While the pain is excruciating, it’s also a pleasant burn; it feels like he is splitting you in half, yet, you cannot help but remain flush against him, neck extended backwards as you repeatedly constrict around his cock.
Less than several beats later, you’re moving up and down, the combination of blood and slick that coats his shaft makes every downward slide and upward cant of his hips a slippery, smooth motion. A spring begins to coil tighter within your belly until all that you are able to feel, taste, smell is your prince.
The obscene sound of your sopping core slamming down onto his pelvis ricochets throughout the tent, heightening your arousal at the possibility of being discovered.
The heir to the throne fucking his sworn knight on the unforgiving dirt of a tourney tent.
The thought makes you clench hard–a strangled cry echoes within your helmet as your release washes over you, tightly caging his cock within your inner walls.
“Gods,” Baelor gasps.
Immediately, you rise to relieve him of his boots and breeches entirely; you lay your cape onto the ground, flip him onto his stomach, trapping his weeping cock down the length of his thighs, and move to kneel between his legs.
“May I pleasure you, your grace?” your voice is sultry as you remove your gauntlets.
For a long beat, Baelor does not speak, then, a soft, even-toned, “You may,” leaves his lips. His hands rise to grip the cloth he was sprawled atop, providing you with a view of his bloodied knuckles.
You take your time to work him open, using your shared fluids to loosen him just enough for you to slide a slick, wiggling digit inside of him.
He is just as soft as you imagined he would be, as well as hot and tight.
“Are you in pain, my prince?” you want to take off your helm to get a better look at the way he hugs your finger, gripping you as though he means to swallow your entire arm.
But you can’t, because it would ruin the facade–the image of the prince being spread apart by his sworn knight.
“No.” Baelor chokes, cock dribbling onto the cloth below when your finger begins to curl and twist until you find what it is you’re looking for, and then he’s groaning, “Oh, Gods–,”
It’s easy to find the smooth, spongy bulb you had heard about, the difficult part is slowing the speed in which you stroke it, not wanting him to release so quickly.
“Does that feel good, your grace?”
Gargled, inaudible words leave his throat; his forehead presses into the flesh of his forearm as you increase the pressure of your finger. A sheen of sweat rises over his lower half as the tremor in his thighs intensifies, inciting him to murmur, “I feel as though–,”
You reach up to grasp his neglected cock with your free hand, milking it in tandem with the pace of your strokes inside of him.
“Spread out like a whore for your protector,” the filthy words leave your lips before you can stop yourself, lust licking at every ounce of your being, “what would the realm think if they could see you now, your grace?”
With a pathetic whimper he’s releasing, shooting ribbons of cum over your cape, his own thighs, over your armour–some even lands atop your pelvis.
Your laboured breaths lessen with every beat that passes and soon enough it is the howling cheers and clash of lances hitting steel that once again fills the space.
“Are you in any pain, your grace?” concern for your prince drowns out the dull throbbing between your own legs as you hunch over his shaking form.
“No,” Baelor meekly mumbles once his vision returns, “no, I–that was interesting.”
He moves to lay on his back, the tops of his thighs scratched despite your efforts to protect him from the gravel below.
“A pleasant interesting?”
His shaky hands rise to remove your helmet, then he’s cradling your face to pull you down and press soft kisses over the skin of your heated, sweaty face.
to be felled by you | baelor targaryen x fem!reader (18+)
summary: It's your wedding night with the prince, and you're terrified he'll find out you're not a maiden
author notes: There's some plot before it gets to the explicit part. If you're into that, great! If not, this is the heads-up :)
content notes/warnings: explicit sexual content, baelor targaryen x reader, baelor targaryen x you, a sprinkle of sworn knight x reader, plot with smut, wedding night, reader is not a virgin and stressed about getting found out, fingering, pinv sex, voice kink, dirty talk, soft dom baelor, mention of moon tea, canon universe, some period-accurate misogyny, alcohol, older man x younger woman, no use of Y/N, no beta read
word count: 2.6k words
dividers by @saradika-graphics and @strangergraphics
It's a great honor. You should be happy.
Those were the words that rang in your ears. You sat at the table laden with all the realm's delicacies; the scent of spilled wine mixed with the suffocating cloud of sweat from the dancers.
Every now and then, lords and ladies walked up to pay their respects, kneeling in front of you. In some ways, it worked out being stuck listening to their well-wishes and blessings: there was a lot on your mind.
It's a great honor.
Your handmaiden's words, as she braided your hair the day you were betrothed.
You should be happy.
Your cousin's words as she kissed you goodbye, with a glint of envy in her voice.
Do not dishonor our house.
Your father's last words to you as he walked you to the altar.
As the hours passed, you felt more like a convict waiting to be led to the gallows than a bride on her wedding day.
'Are you well, my lady?'
Startled, you looked to your right. The prince's hand was leisurely resting on yours; nothing too sentimental, but a gesture that sent the appropriate message for the room full of people.
'Of course, Your Grace,' you flashed him a reassuring smile, but had an unnerving feeling he wasn't convinced. Nevertheless, he didn't push it. He turned back to the lord who had strolled up to the table.
It was the most important night in the whole Realm. Prince Baelor, heir to the throne, took a new wife; you never thought it might be you.
But it just so happened that both your older sisters passed from fever. It left you with a dowry that rivaled that of the Lannisters, and the king wanted to unite his house with an ancient family.
Your father was elated. You always thought one day he'd ship you off to some old lord. It would be fine, you used to think, disappearing somewhere far. No one would pay you any mind ever again; no one would care what you did, or where you went, as long as you were there to warm your husband's bed. But this was different; married to the heir, you'd be watched forever.
If you knew, you would've been more careful; but you were so young, and thought that your life was going to end in some backwater keep with a lord thrice your age, who couldn't even see who he was screwing.
So when you found yourself in your young and handsome sworn shield's embrace, you let him have you. You just wanted to feel something, and the moment his hand brushed yours was like a dam that broke in you. You promised yourself it was just that one time, but one time became another, and another. You didn't recognize the person you were when with him. You were drinking in those nights like you knew they had to sustain you for the rest of your life.
You confided in your handmaiden; like she told you to, you reached carefully for a small knife by your plate. Making sure no one saw you, you tucked it into the sleeve of your dress. The cool steel resting against your skin was unsettling.
You shot a look over at the prince, making sure he did not see you just then. He was watching the crowd with a calculating gaze. You prayed–though you weren't sure who would listen–that he didn't notice the absence of your sworn knight.
You saw him last night. The hour was late, but you were awake, pacing nervously in front of the window. It was unwise, but you took him to bed.
A bit later, he donned his armor silently and turned to you:
'My lady, I will surrender my post in the morrow. I hope you can forgive me.'
You sat up, covering yourself with the sheets.
'You're leaving? Where?'
'Wherever they'll have me. I cannot serve under your new husband's banner. I've sullied my honor,' he said without meeting your eyes.
'People will talk... more so if you leave right before the wedding–'
'You will be queen one day. No one can touch you.'
'I am not queen yet!' you began to panic, 'Do you understand what they might do with me, if it's found out that–'
'Forgive me, my lady.'
He left, and like he said, by the morning he was gone.
It was when a quarrel broke out amidst a group of drunk men that Baelor signaled the servants and handmaids over.
They led you to Baelor's room: you'd never seen it before and weren't sure what to expect. Likely something grand, opulent.
To your surprise, when you stepped inside, you were greeted by a spacious but dimly lit room with sprawling bookcases. By the window stood a large table with candles that melted into mounds. In the middle was a bed covered in a rich golden duvet, and near it was a lit fireplace. It was actually somewhat... welcoming.
And it almost made you forget that you had to act fast. You hurried up to the bed and ran your hand under the mattress, looking for a dent. The silk sheets were pleasantly cool against your fingertips. You found a place where you could nicely hide the knife and find it later; you reached into your sleeve and pulled it out.
When you were sure the knife was neatly tucked in, you smoothed the blanket and turned to find Baelor standing in the doorway, watching you quietly.
The blood froze in your veins.
How long had he been standing there? How did you not hear him coming? Did he see... Gods, did he think...
'It's not what it looks like, Your Grace...' your voice quavered, and the ice in your veins morphed into hot mortification when you realized that your fate could turn even darker. If they thought you were trying to hurt the prince...
'Like what, my lady?' his expression was impossible to read. You had no idea what was going on in his head as he considered you. It was like he had a drape up, keeping anyone from seeing inside.
It was this expression that you noticed when you first met him in your home. Even then, as you walked with him in your gardens, you couldn't tell how he felt about the match. But he sounded kind; you noticed that too. It was one reason you felt less scared about the marriage.
Even now, as he inquired of you, you noted the soft edges of his voice. As if he wasn't questioning you about why you just hid a knife in your wedding bed.
'Do not fret, my lady. I think you to be smarter than to attack the king's heir with a butter knife,' there was a light jest in his voice, which you found strange.
What were you supposed to say? That you were going to wait till he was asleep to cut yourself and stain the sheets, hoping he wouldn't figure out you were not a maiden?
Just bring the guards and send me back to my father, you thought, and closed your eyes. There would be hell to pay once your family found out. You'd be better off running away.
He walked up to his table, where a pitcher of wine and two goblets stood.
'Come,' he said, and you did.
He poured you a cup first, then one for himself. He drank, and you followed suit. You weren't sure what else to do. After a bit of consideration, he broke the silence.
'I thought you seemed troubled since this morning,' he said as he examined the wine in his cup, 'at first, I thought it was just the nerves.'
Oh gods.
'After all, you've been put under immense pressure. Your lord father is a severe man. You have your entire house's name riding on your shoulders,' he was looking at you now, with that same calculating gaze he watched everyone with. You felt yourself bend under the weight of it.
'But I think there's something else burdening you, isn't there?' he asked.
You shut your eyes and awaited the accusation.
'Is it your knight?' his voice was lower now. There was a barely noticeable waver in it; was it from containing his anger?
You carefully put the goblet on his table, and descended to your knees.
'I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. My lord father didn't know. It was not his fault,' you said with a shaking voice, and waited for the flood of his rage. To be cast aside; to be thrown out. To face the thunder that came next.
Except that it didn't.
'Rise, my lady,' he said, and poured himself another cup. After a bit of consideration, he asked:
'Are you with child?'
You shook your head.
'My handmaiden helped me source moon tea from the Grand Maester. I ordered her to. Please do not punish her,' before you could think, you told him. You could only hope he would have mercy on them.
'Does anyone else know?'
You shook your head again.
'Only my handmaiden and I. And my sworn knight. He resigned from his station this morning,' your voice was barely audible.
He stared into his cup just like before. A long silence, before he spoke again.
'Do you love him?'
Your eyes jumped to him: you expected him to sneer at you, to spit in your face, or, at best, dismiss you without another glance. But to this, you were unsure how to answer. You decided to tell the truth.
'I do not.'
He turned back to you.
'Why, then?,' he asked, with a small frown on his face. You could tell he was still studying you, but there was something else now, too. Puzzlement? Curiosity, perhaps?
You tapped your finger on the goblet, before you were able to answer.
'Because I wanted something for myself.'
The honesty of that surprised even you, but it was true.
Ever since you could remember, you felt a terrible dread hovering over your head; it felt like your life had ended before it could even begin. The first time you realized that feeling quieted was when your hands touched your knight's. It was after a tourney; he'd asked for your favor. He won, but was badly injured, and you visited him afterwards.
'Are you going to send me away, Your Grace?' you asked Baelor, waiting for the blow.
He considered you for a second, leaning against his table.
'Why would I do that?'
It was the second time he surprised you with something he said. You tried to read his face to see if he was perhaps mocking you, but it didn't seem so. He was genuinely asking.
'Because I am not a maiden. You married me believing you were getting a pure bride; I have deceived you,' you said, though it was strange you had to spell it out.
'That's not the reason I married you,' he said, with a strange level of calmness.
Everything about this conversation was curious. Seeing your frowning expression, he continued.
'This match was made because the king hoped to unite an ancient house with the crown. As far as that is concerned, you haven't erred. As for our personal hopes...'
He trailed off and fiddled with one of his rings, the one with the Targaryen sygil.
'It is my sincere hope that you can find happiness here. But if you wish to go home...' he looked into your eyes, and you were shocked to see his typical calculating watch gone. He seemed genuine.
'...If you wish to go home, there is still time.'
That, you didn't expect. You were so terrified of the prospect that it never crossed your mind that it would be presented to you as an option.
No, you did not want to go back home.
You walked to him; he watched you as you got closer, trying to read what you were going to say. He was always studying people like that: you noticed it from the moment you first met him. Perhaps as the Hand, he'd had to get accustomed to reading between the lines, planning moves as he spoke with lords. Trying to spot what someone's next motion might be, what they might say.
You were now in front of him; you felt his gaze on you. You stood there for a minute, in front of this invisible line. You wondered if he was going to move over it, when you realized: he was waiting for you to do so.
You reached your hand out and brushed it against his. You felt a whir in your ears at that touch; you'd been technically wed for hours but never been... like this.
He ran his fingers against your knuckles, then on your arm; you finally took the courage to look up at him. Your face was inches away: he'd kissed you before at the sept during your vows, but this was different. Then, thousands of eyes and the murmurs of spectators; this time, just the crackling of fire and the feel of his breath against your lips.
He closed the space between you, and you marveled at the softness. It made you smile. Your worries from earlier melted away as you went to rest your palms on his chest; he caressed your arm, planting soft kisses on your mouth.
You began to run your hand lower, and his breath hitched in response. He deepened the kiss, and you felt a pleasant jolt in your belly as his tongue entered your mouth.
'You said you wanted something for yourself,' he said between kisses.
'Yes, Your Grace...'
'Tell me what you want,' he breathed against your mouth, and it sent a shiver down your spine.
'Your Grace, I–'
'Baelor. Call your husband by his name.'
'Baelor...'
'Yes,' he said while he ran his mouth over your throat.
'Mm... Keep talking to me,' you said, shuddering at the feel of his stubble against your skin.
His voice was one of the first things you took notice of when you met him.
It was, in some ways, jarring when compared to his looks. He seemed serious, stern, intimidating even, with his ever-calculating gaze. So his voice held a tenderness you didn't expect: warm, raspy, dancing in a gentle but assured tone. When he talked, you felt... sheltered. That's what you noticed as you walked with him that afternoon, when he and his entourage arrived at your father's castle.
Now, hearing his words made your pulse quicken.
'Turn around for me.'
You did, and he unlaced your corset. When he hooked his fingers to remove it, you shuddered.
He had you facing him again as he ran his palm over your small clothes. He slipped his hand in, and you gasped at the contact. You could hear how wet you were for him already.
He studied your face as he touched you. Then, in a voice that sent a dull ache to your center, he said:
'Did he fuck you last night?'
Your mouth fell agape from the feeling of his fingers rubbing you, spreading your come, and from the question he just asked. Heat enveloped your face...
'I asked if he fucked you last night.'
Shame bubbled in you as you nodded–then cried out as he pushed two fingers inside you as a retort.
'Is that what you're doing on the night before you're wed?' his fingers pushed against that spot in you that made you buck against his palm.
'Fucking your knight in your bedchamber?'
'I'm sorry,' you pleaded, desperately digging your hands into the bedposts, as he worked on you with his hands.
'Could've come to me,' he said, leaning against your ear now, in a low voice, 'if you needed to be fucked so bad.'
That was all you needed; you came pulsing around his fingers, panting a string of apologies, over and over again. You pleaded for his forgiveness and promised yourself to him, as he made you his wife that night.
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congrats on 650!!! for the prompt requests might i ask for office sex with bff dad!baelor? maybe reader comes to visit him at the museum?? i cannot get these two out of my head (nor do i want too lol)
thank you so much for your words and for the request! i actually got pretty heated up with this one ngl
Grateful Prompt List
57. Office Sex | modern!BFF's dad!Baelor x f!reader
You brought him coffee.
This was, officially and if anyone asked, the reason. The truth was that six days without seeing him — schedules, work, the general inconvenience of life asserting itself — had woken up that the specific restlessness of someone who had decided that enough was enough and the museum was not, in fact, that far out of the way.
You were also wearing a dress he had particularly liked a few weeks ago.
The receptionist waved you through without looking up. Third time this month. You were furniture to her at this point, which you found enormously pleasing because she didn't ask you anymore about your reasons for visiting.
His office door was half open. You knocked on the frame and he looked up from whatever he was reading and the specific sequence of things that happened in his expression — you, the coffee, that dress, back to you — took approximately two seconds and communicated everything.
"Hi," you smiled.
"Hi," he mimicked, and took his glasses off, which he only did when he had decided the reading was finished.
You set the coffee on the desk and settled into the chair across from him with the ease of someone completely comfortable in this room, which you were. His office had become one of your favourite places in the city, all books and warm lamplight and the particular quality of a space that was used thoroughly and loved. You had spent two hours in this chair last month while he finished a report, reading one of his books, and had left feeling inexplicably content.
That visit had been less eventful than this one was going to be. You'd made sure of it.
He picked up the coffee. Drank it. Set it back down. Looked at you over the desk with those eyes that had never quite mastered neutrality where you were concerned and said nothing, which from Baelor said quite a lot.
"I was in the area," he raised a curious eyebrow at your words. "Taking the scenic route," you explained.
The corner of his mouth moved fractionally. He glanced at the dress and back to your face and stood up.
He crossed to the door and locked it.
The sound of the lock was specific. Immediate. You watched him do it with the calm deliberateness he brought to everything and felt the cheerful composure you had arrived with become something more complicated.
He came back to the desk. Did not sit down. He stood in front of you and looked at you sitting in his chair in the dress with the coffee you had brought and the smile that was, second by second, conquering your whole face.
He offered you his hand.
You took it and he pulled you up and kissed you, and the kiss had six days in it and the specific warmth of finally, and your hands went to his lapels and you stopped thinking about anything more.
He lifted you onto the desk.
His hands — those hands, large and certain and spanning you completely — and then his mouth at your throat and the papers he had been working on somewhere beneath you.
"I gather we have to be quiet," you said softly, against his hair.
"Mm," he replied, against your throat, which was not a commitment exactly but was all you were getting.
His mouth bit specifically that funny point Baelor knew too well and you made a sound immediately — involuntary, too loud for the context — and his hand came up and covered your mouth with the calm efficiency of someone implementing an obvious solution.
You bit his palm and passed your tongue a few times across it. He pulled back and looked at you and you could see there was little of his usual restraint in his eyes.
"You absolute menace," he whispered amused, which earned him an extra pair of swipes from your tongue. You pressed a smile to his hand and he descended again to your throat.
Baelor decided that kissing you was the better solution instead of stating the thing your eyes, completely lewd looking back at him from behind his hand, was doing to him.
Six days made it fast and necessary in a way that your previous times had not been — urgent in the specific way of something that had been waiting and was done waiting, his hands on your hips with a certainty that left no ambiguity and his mouth finding every place he had apparently been thinking about with the focused efficiency of a man working through a list he had been maintaining.
He pushed his cock inside you and went completely still — that moment, always that moment — his forehead dropping to yours, jaw tight, every muscle held.
You moaned against his palm. A rough exhale from him. His hands tightened. Then he moved and both of you made sounds that were immediately muffled — yours into his palm, his into your throat — and the specific quality of trying to be quiet together, the shared effort of it, was somehow more intimate than anything that did not require the trying.
Footsteps in the corridor and you both froze for a moment.
His eyes found yours in the stillness — wide, slightly stunned, and then something else moved through them that was the contained version of what you were also feeling — and you pressed a smile against his hand again and felt his chest moving against yours with the suppressed laughter of someone who not only found the situation equal parts amusing and risky, but that was also getting turned on by the perspective of getting caught by one of his colleagues.
The footsteps faded. He exhaled, pressed his mouth to your temple and resumed the thrusting of his hips against your core.
You came quietly with your face pressed into his shoulder and his name breathed so low it was barely sound, and felt him follow with your name muffled into your throat and his whole body shuddering through it with the specific effort of containment.
The room settled. Both of you worked to find your breaths again, his forehead against yours and a smile sitting on his face. After a moment you became aware of the crumpled papers on which you had been sitting the whole time, now a crumpled mess underneath you.
"Those seem important," you mentioned.
"They were," Baelor simply stated, pressing soft kisses against the column of your neck.
"You seem strangely calm about it," a smiled tugged at your lips.
"I find that the tradeoff was entirely worth it," a swipe from his tongue.
Heat crept up your face again. You laughed. "You are impossible."
"I'm actually rather pleased with myself," he smiled, and kissed you once before he started dealing with the mess.
You watched him straighten with his shirt untucked and found yourself thinking that this was one of your favourite versions of him — the composure not quite reassembled, the warmth of the last twenty minutes still sitting visibly in his expression while he sorted some papers with the focus of a man who was pretending to be entirely normal. The slight trembling of his hands that you saw when he straightened and fixed his shirt told you that he was far from feeling normal.
He picked up the coffee and drank the rest of it cold without comment. Looked at you still sitting on the edge of his desk.
"So," his tone was openly teasing in a manner that you were getting pretty used to, "how was the scenic route?"
"Absolutely worth it," you replied with an open grin as you ogled the dip of his neck, a few of his chest hairs adorning the skin.
Something in his face did the thing and he kissed you once more before he went and unlocked the door.
↪︎want more modern!BFF's dad!Baelor? check out this masterlist!
Ever since I saw Baelor spread his legs at the joust I've had this thought in my head. How about reader wanting so badly to please Baelor. Wants to learn what he likes. Wants him to teach her but then she learns she has no gag reflex. I need that man in my throat yesterday.
oh 😳
(nsfw)
—
Who knew that catching a glimpse of your husband’s widely spread legs during a banquet feast earlier that day, one that celebrated the newly forged treaty he had formed with a neighbouring house, would have dire, wanton effects on your psyche.
It had you bursting into his private library, late into the evening, to collapse between his parted legs and shamelessly beg him to teach you how to pleasure him.
After a beat of stunned silence, Baelor’s alarmed look slowly transformed into one of amusement. He moved forward to hold the sides of your face, the parchment he had been studying now abandoned on the floor.
“I wish to please you as you have pleased me.”
“You already do, my dear,” he assured you, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as his fingers mindlessly tucked loose strands of hair behind your ears.
“With my mouth upon your.. cock.” the sentence sounded foreign and clumsy on your tongue, but you refrained from allowing the embarrassment you felt to show on your features.
Baelor’s brows rose at the vulgar word but he did not comment on it. A contemplative look filled his eyes as they drifted over your form, taking in the eager twinkle in your stare and the way your fingers desperately clutched at his clothes.
More pleas left your lips, each one breaking down his resolute refusal to allow you to debase yourself until, finally, he permitted you to untie his breeches and free him to the open air.
“If you feel the slightest bit of unease,” he began, placing your shaky fingers at the base of his length, “stop immediately, I will not be upset.”
You placed several skittish licks over the swollen length before your lips parted to engulf the engorged, leaking tip of his thickness into your mouth.
“That’s it,” he sighed, head tilting to watch the way your cheeks hollowed around him, “don’t feel as though you must–,”
The abrupt groan that left Baelor’s lips was guttural and pathetic; his head fell backwards when, aside from the initial unfamiliar ache of having to open your mouth wide enough for him to slide past your lips, you showed no discomfort at having the entirety of his thick, pulsating cock down your throat.
“How–,” he sputtered, another ragged sound leaving his chest when the suction around his length tightened.
He had never been with someone who did not make it abundantly clear, either verbally or physically, that he was too large to properly orally pleasure. And yet, here you sat, the whole of his shaft encased in the velvety heat of your throat with your chin resting comfortably on his scrotum.
Startled, you moved back, frightened that you may have caused him pain, “Did I hurt you?”
“No, no, you’re.. wonderful,” was Baelor's uneven response, voice imbued with awe. He was certain you did not even know that what you had done was something not even the most gifted, well-trained courtesans were capable of.
He trembled when you moved back down his cock, a hand moving to loosely grasp the back of your neck. He could neither push you away nor pull you closer, helpless to the heavenly torture of your throat muscles pulling him deeper within.
Baelor offered praise in a sultry, hushed tone, deciding that you needed no further guidance. His eyelids lowered as he watched you move up and down his shaft, the candlelight reflecting in his one blue eye prettily.
“Gods–,” he reclined backwards, hips canting forward when you swallowed once more around his cock.
You could feel his spend dripping down your throat as the smell of his musk, body oils, and arousal filled your nose.
The heaviness that had weighed down on his shoulders the past few weeks was replaced with a lighter, satiated bliss as his release washed over him.
You moved away from his length with an obscenely loud pop and smiled up at him, lips swollen and tingly.
“Did I do well?” you knew the answer, but still, you wanted his praise.
Baelor sat back, staring at you for a long moment as his chest rose and fell in tandem with his racing heart, not speaking until he felt stable enough to.
“You were beyond perfect,” he murmured, sounding entranced and immensely pleased. It was followed by the low, nearly indiscernible muttering of, “made for me”.
Ever since I saw Baelor spread his legs at the joust I've had this thought in my head. How about reader wanting so badly to please Baelor. Wants to learn what he likes. Wants him to teach her but then she learns she has no gag reflex. I need that man in my throat yesterday.
oh 😳
(nsfw)
—
Who knew that catching a glimpse of your husband’s widely spread legs during a banquet feast earlier that day, one that celebrated the newly forged treaty he had formed with a neighbouring house, would have dire, wanton effects on your psyche.
It had you bursting into his private library, late into the evening, to collapse between his parted legs and shamelessly beg him to teach you how to pleasure him.
After a beat of stunned silence, Baelor’s alarmed look slowly transformed into one of amusement. He moved forward to hold the sides of your face, the parchment he had been studying now abandoned on the floor.
“I wish to please you as you have pleased me.”
“You already do, my dear,” he assured you, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as his fingers mindlessly tucked loose strands of hair behind your ears.
“With my mouth upon your.. cock.” the sentence sounded foreign and clumsy on your tongue, but you refrained from allowing the embarrassment you felt to show on your features.
Baelor’s brows rose at the vulgar word but he did not comment on it. A contemplative look filled his eyes as they drifted over your form, taking in the eager twinkle in your stare and the way your fingers desperately clutched at his clothes.
More pleas left your lips, each one breaking down his resolute refusal to allow you to debase yourself until, finally, he permitted you to untie his breeches and free him to the open air.
“If you feel the slightest bit of unease,” he began, placing your shaky fingers at the base of his length, “stop immediately, I will not be upset.”
You placed several skittish licks over the swollen length before your lips parted to engulf the engorged, leaking tip of his thickness into your mouth.
“That’s it,” he sighed, head tilting to watch the way your cheeks hollowed around him, “don’t feel as though you must–,”
The abrupt groan that left Baelor’s lips was guttural and pathetic; his head fell backwards when, aside from the initial unfamiliar ache of having to open your mouth wide enough for him to slide past your lips, you showed no discomfort at having the entirety of his thick, pulsating cock down your throat.
“How–,” he sputtered, another ragged sound leaving his chest when the suction around his length tightened.
He had never been with someone who did not make it abundantly clear, either verbally or physically, that he was too large to properly orally pleasure. And yet, here you sat, the whole of his shaft encased in the velvety heat of your throat with your chin resting comfortably on his scrotum.
Startled, you moved back, frightened that you may have caused him pain, “Did I hurt you?”
“No, no, you’re.. wonderful,” was Baelor's uneven response, voice imbued with awe. He was certain you did not even know that what you had done was something not even the most gifted, well-trained courtesans were capable of.
He trembled when you moved back down his cock, a hand moving to loosely grasp the back of your neck. He could neither push you away nor pull you closer, helpless to the heavenly torture of your throat muscles pulling him deeper within.
Baelor offered praise in a sultry, hushed tone, deciding that you needed no further guidance. His eyelids lowered as he watched you move up and down his shaft, the candlelight reflecting in his one blue eye prettily.
“Gods–,” he reclined backwards, hips canting forward when you swallowed once more around his cock.
You could feel his spend dripping down your throat as the smell of his musk, body oils, and arousal filled your nose.
The heaviness that had weighed down on his shoulders the past few weeks was replaced with a lighter, satiated bliss as his release washed over him.
You moved away from his length with an obscenely loud pop and smiled up at him, lips swollen and tingly.
“Did I do well?” you knew the answer, but still, you wanted his praise.
Baelor sat back, staring at you for a long moment as his chest rose and fell in tandem with his racing heart, not speaking until he felt stable enough to.
“You were beyond perfect,” he murmured, sounding entranced and immensely pleased. It was followed by the low, nearly indiscernible muttering of, “made for me”.
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Baelor’s hand is gliding down the length of your back, the sheen of sweat that coats your skin makes the slide easy as his fingers descend to wrap around your nape.
He has you face down in the clumped, silken sheets of your bedding, curved into a deep arch with your backside high, wrists bound behind your back with a satin ribbon, and knees spread far apart enough for him to kneel between them.
The weight of his balls hits your clit with every hard, unyielding smack of his damp hips meeting your equally wet flesh; a combination of his arousal, your slick, his saliva, and the sweat that had dripped down your bodies reverberates obscenely in the chamber.
The most depraved part had not been the way he forced you to spread your slit apart for him to lap languidly at you, it was the large mirror he had propped up in front of the bed and had, at the very start, ordered you to maintain his gaze through.
Of course, you had obliged, but soon enough you were struggling to keep your drooping eyelids up, let alone unblurry and focused on his reflection.
Baelor tilts his head, “My sweet girl,” he’s cooing–a drawl that enters your ears and leaves a syrupy trail as it slinks down the length of your body to settle in the heated pit of your lower abdomen, “Gods, you’re dripping.”
A loud whine escapes your throat and, as though spellbound, you’re hypnotized by the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you only to reappear even more soaked than it was before.
“Good girl, so good,” he’s always been generous when it came to offering praise, however, this time there’s a sharper edge that accompanies every sweet word he bites out.
“So good,” is followed by a raspy, “so eager, my lovely girl.”
Mewls fill the room when his pace slows, the hair across his chest tickling your damp spine when he lowers to nibble on the plump flesh of your ear.
“Look at yourself,” Baelor practically purrs, the hand he had wrapped around your nape moving to hold your jaw, the tips of his fingers creating harsh indents in the plush of your cheeks, “soaking an old man’s cock.”
Immediately, a bolt of arousal shoots up your spine; your walls tighten around him until he can no longer leave your passage as your release engulfs every inch of your being, sending another flood of slick that smears between your bodies.
There’s a knowing glint in his eyes as he pauses to loom over your spasming form, caging you in the sweltering temperature of his body and the shrouded depth of his gaze.
Baelor had not meant to intrude on the private conversation you were having with your maid when he had entered the adjoining room of your shared quarters.
You were immersed in the discussion, the unusually hushed tone in which you spoke arousing his curiosity, beckoning him nearer to the door.
“The prince is kind, is he not?”
“Yes–oh, yes, of course,” you hurried to confirm, sounding guilt-ridden.
“Then, I don’t understand, princess.”
You remained quiet; for a long moment, the repetitive movement of a brush combing through hair was the only sound that filled the chamber.
Then, finally, you confessed, “I only wish that he would not be so kind in our marital bed.”
A beat of silence.
“Well,” your maid’s voice was low, “his grace is not as young as he once was.”
“I did not–,” you sob through gritted teeth, only to be cut off by the piercing movement of his cock pulling entirely out before it slammed back in, all the way to the hilt.
“Does this old man’s cock not please you?”
His hips are moving in slow, circular motions, it has him reaching a deeper depth–one that has your unrestrained keening bouncing off the stone walls.
“Baelor,” his name leaves your mouth like a plea. He ignores it, along with the sputtering attempts you make to explain yourself.
His arm slides around your waist to hold your back firmly against his torso just as the hand on your jaw tightens, and then, he’s hoisting you up.
From this angle, you can see everything.
The way your mouth hangs open and eyes roll back as he lifts you until you’re, quite literally, speared on his cock, how the lines between his brows deepen as he remains transfixed on your expression, to the lewd way your swollen folds hug his girth.
As though he were in a trance, his hold and pace becomes even less forgiving when your head lolls forward and another release plagues your body.
“Perhaps, I will keep you bound and spread for my pleasure,” Baelor’s nips along your shoulders are sharp, courtesy of his canines.
“Please, I did not–,” the explanation is smothered by a guttural moan, which is followed by a mantra of yeses and a repetition of pleas.
From the slits of your eyes, you can see that his pupils are blown, swallowing the entirety of the blue and brown that resides alongside it, giving him the appearance of a ravenous beast in the midst of a long-awaited feast.
Until, finally, he’s releasing inside of you.
With a shuddering breath, you feel the hot spurts of his seed fill you, continuing even as it drips down to pool in the bedding below.
Baelor immediately loosens the restraints around your wrists once he’s caught his breath, gentle hands moving you onto your back as he presses an apologetic kiss to your forehead.
“Are you in pain?” he asks quietly, shoulders tense with concern.
Your head shakes to assure him that you’re fine but your eyes are glossy and you’re unable to meet his gaze; Baelor realizes with a ragged exhale that he may have crossed a threshold you had not been prepared to venture past.
In your dazed state you do not notice that he leaves before the bed is dipping with his return, a tray of fruit having suddenly appeared beside your head.
Baelor cleans between your thighs with the damp cloth that he had also retrieved, removing all traces of your shared fluids before he reaches for another cloth that he uses to wipe the accumulated perspiration from your body.
“Forgive me,” Baelor murmurs, eyes downcast as his fingers lightly brush over the areas he had unintentionally dug his fingers into to maintain his hold on your slippery form.
Your mouth instinctively opens when he holds a berry to your lips, chewing slowly when your jaw clicks, throbbing from the bruising force he had grasped it with.
“Mm,” you hum after a moment, turning to lay on your side.
“I’m sorry, sweetling.”
Once he finishes, he feeds you until you confess you’re full, then slides his hands around your torso, trapping your limp arms between your bodies.
“Forgive me, sweet girl, I do not know what came over me,” he sounds painfully remorseful, mortified of his behaviour despite the look of satiated bliss on your face.
“There may be a way you can make it up to me,” the words are muffled against his chest, a teasing lilt following them.
“Anything you want–absolutely anything, my dear,” is Baelor’s eager response, “consider it already done.”
